


The Heart of a Pirate

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: Experiments in Alternates [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst, Deaf Character, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), No period-typical homophobia, Pirate Sherlock, Pirates, Protective John, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sailor John, Sea Battle, Tags Contain Spoilers, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-03-15 14:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: Lieutenant John Watson, first mate on one of the greatest ships of the line in British Royal Navy history, has never seen a pirate in person. That is, until one strange, foggy night, when a mysterious ship attacks. Taken on board the unknown ship, John finds himself surrounded by the last people he has ever wanted to encounter. But perhaps life is not as black and white as he has supposed it to be, and perhaps the curly-haired pirate will provide him with a greater adventure than he had ever imagined…A historical AU in which Sherlock is a pirate and John is a sailor.





	1. Pirates and Fog

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since I planned this AU series, I have wanted to do this particular one. In fact, I almost looked for a way to move it up in the alphabet, but obviously it didn't happen. Anyway, I had a blast with this one and I hope you do too!
> 
> However, I'm sure I made errors in terms of the historical aspects, for which I apologize. This story is set in the late 18th century, and I have done some research on this period. However, I am by no means an expert and so am certain I have overlooked things or made mistakes. In some areas I have taken liberties for the sake of the plot. 
> 
> I don't own Sherlock.

John stood on the deck of the _Silver Fox_ , gazing out across the rolling waves. The breeze was cool on his skin, and he sighed at the sensation. They were a fortnight out of port with no sign of land anywhere, only a small fraction into their journey, and John was reveling in it. The open seas, the challenge they posed, were his passion. London, his home port, was all well and good, but nothing there could ever quite compare with the adventures offered by sailing.

“Watson,” a voice interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to face his captain, Gregory Lestrade of the Royal Navy.

“Sir.” He didn't bother to behave any more deferentially than that greeting and a swift nod; he and Lestrade had known one another for years and had long since dispensed with any real semblance of hierarchy between them, at least when speaking privately.

“Have you noticed it?” Lestrade asked, eyes on the horizon.

“Noticed what?” John frowned. He turned, following Lestrade's gaze, and spotted a dark shape breaking the line of the ocean far in the distance. A ship.

“It's been there the past hour,” Lestrade looked concerned. “I only hope it's one of ours.”

“Greg,” he clapped the taller man on the shoulder. “It'll be fine, I'm sure.”

But by the time another hour had passed, the entire crew was on alert. The fact they were being followed was obvious now to all on board. Everyone muttered about how the strange ship loomed on the horizon, maintaining the same distance all the while. Odd behaviour, all agreed. _Perhaps it was… no, don’t even say it_.

After a time of listening to the worry and speculation and half-spoken theories, John climbed the mizzenmast and perched there, staring through a telescope in an attempt to discern any identifying features of their shadow. However, the horizon was hazy that day, and all he could tell was she flew a dark-colored flag and dark sails and was probably a schooner or polacre. He couldn't even decide which, or what sort of flag fluttered from her masts. He sighed and climbed back down to the deck, where Lestrade and a cluster of crew mates waited.

Straightening up, he shook his head. “No good. It's too hazy, Captain. I can't tell what we're dealing with.”

“They know,” Lestrade murmured, voice low and tense. “They know the skies aren’t clear today, so they're staying back just far enough that we can't identify them but close enough to keep us marked.”

“What should we do, Captain?" a sailor asked.

“Do you think they're... planning to board us?” another asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His question sent a ripple of concerned muttering through those gathered.

John stepped forward. “We can't worry about that now. Captain, there's clouds up ahead, and if that turns into a storm, I want us to be prepared to weather it.”

Lestrade nodded. "Back to your posts. If we find that you need to know anything about the ship, Lieutenant Watson or I will let you know. Now back to work! Ready us for a storm! You know your jobs!"

The men scattered, leaving John and Lestrade alone by the mast. They turned to each other in unison.

“Do you think-?” John started to ask, but Lestrade—sensing what he was about to say—tilted his head.

“If that ship is holding what I think she is," he said, tone dark. “Then we might be in for more than a bit of poor weather.”

 

* * *

 

That evening, after the crew had eaten and most were heading off to bed, John stood on the deck, thinking. They'd sailed several more hours without being disturbed by the unknown ship, but as the sun had gone down, all the crew members had glanced back to check she was still there.

She was. Of course. Same distance as ever.

John leaned against the portside railing, momentarily finding himself lost in thought as he gazed back at the strange ship. He had never encountered much trouble while at sea, in the five years he had sailed. Violent storms, hidden reefs in the shallows, even shark-infested waters. But thanks to good fortune, he had seen nothing quite like this. He had gone to the Mediterranean, around Africa, even as far as Asia, and not once had the ship been boarded or even threatened.

Part of him wondered what it would be like, to be one of those renegades. Dangerous line of work to be sure, but still. What must it be like to be able to sail the seas without having to answer to anyone?

Before he let himself get too carried away, though, he shook his head and stood. He had volunteered to take one of the watches that night and knew he needed to sleep before the time came. If the ship was going to continue following them, he wanted to be awake to keep an eye on it.

 

* * *

 

John's watch came too quickly, but he blinked away his drowsiness and made his way up to the deck again without complaint. Sure enough, the mysterious ship still glided along behind them, just within sight thanks to the light of the moon. The winds had increased since last John had been up, and though the clouds loomed large and dark, there did not yet seem to be signs of imminent rain. He hoped it would hold off until the morning at least.

He made a few slow laps up and down the length of the ship. The wind was colder now that the sun was down, but he just tightened his navy blue coat around himself and shrugged the slight discomfort off. He had dealt with much worse than cold before.

Eventually, he leaned against the railing and sighed. He glanced back. Beyond the helm where the midshipman was standing, past the stern, and out across the water, the unknown ship still followed. John pulled out his telescope and peered through it. A fog was rolling in, and the realization sent a chill through his veins. If the fog obscured the ship tailing them, the crew of the _Silver Fox_ would have no way of knowing where she was. They would be ignorant of whether she was still following at the same distance, or if she was approaching them.

He began pacing the length of the ship again, exchanging only a few tense words with the man at the helm. Both were hoping against hope that the fog would not intensify.

But intensify it did. Less than a quarter hour later, John was struggling to discern anything beyond a cable length in front of the ship. He shuddered from the cold, which felt as though it were seeping into his bones by now.

A soft noise to his right made him turn his head, and a different sort of chill shot through him. This time, it was the chill of undiluted fear.

The unknown ship’s sails were dark and unmarked, and its black flags were adorned with a skull, a bone, and an anatomically correct heart. Emblazoned on the side of the vessel in dark letters was the name _Sea Dragon_.

Somehow, without making a sound, the mysterious vessel had maneuvered alongside the _Silver Fox_.

People were moving along its deck, staring toward him. One group, he saw, was lifting a gangplank and moving it into position. Others were armed, the metal of pistols and swords glinting in the moonlight.

And a lone figure, tall and striking against the clouds, was lowering a sword and pointing it directly at the _Silver Fox_. Directly, in fact, at John.

John comprehended all this in the second the ship emerged from the fog, and reacted without thinking.

“Pirates!” he yelled and whipped his gun out of its holster. “ _Pirates_!”

As if in response to his call, a pirate with a gun fired. The shot whizzed past him, a hair’s breadth from his arm, and lodged in the wood of the ship’s mast. John whirled, wide-eyed, to stare at the fresh hole. He registered with his peripheral vision the midshipman he’d been speaking to earlier pulling out his own pistol and taking up John’s call. Footfalls and shouts sounded from below-decks, and John felt reassured that help was on the way.

Meanwhile, the pirate ship was careening toward them, keeping pace even as it turned. Its prow loomed ever closer to theirs as John’s crewmates surged up onto the deck, armed with pistols, muskets, and swords. They were all yelling, attempting to rally, but every one of them was thrown off his feet as the pirate ship rammed into the side of theirs, colliding hard starboard-aft. A moment later, a gangplank tilted down from the pirate ship and slammed onto the _Silver Fox_ ’s railing. Hooks dangling from its ends secured it there. And pirates appeared.

The _Silver Fox_ was being boarded.

Lestrade scrambled back to his feet first, and called out for his men to stand with him. John dashed over to his friend’s side. Lestrade barely glanced at him as he leveled his sword toward the pirates.

“They didn’t even shoot across the bow,” John gasped. “No warning for us at all, just used the fog to sneak up on us.” _Unless you count that shot they took at me_ , he thought.

“Well,” Lestrade murmured. “We’ll have to show them a real fight then.”

The two sides crashed together in a cacophonous roar. John was almost immediately overwhelmed by the noise, the blurring forms of men fighting, the total chaos. The pirates were relentless, and at first, John couldn’t see any organization whatsoever. Royal Navy sailors were trained to move in disciplined, refined movements together, but these fighters did not. However, after a few moments of combat, John realized the pirates did have a technique, a system. Instead of moving as one predictable mass, they picked individual targets, whom they attacked. Then, they switched. By changing which opponent they were fighting every few blows, they instilled confusion and panic in the Navy crew. It was an effective, methodical, and ruthless means of attack. And it enabled them, in sequence, to get past the soldiers and dash below-decks.

Soon, John found himself in combat with a pair of wiry young pirates. They slashed at him with their rapiers while he tried time and again to dodge and block their blows, tried to put them off balance, tried to do something to guarantee himself victory. He aimed more than once with his pistol, but each time was unable to fire. Either one of the pirates would take a particularly vicious swipe at him, or someone from nearby would get in the way, or a glancing blow from behind would startle him. He needed a proper sword.

John had always favored the flintlock pistol, so it was the weapon he chose to carry at all times. The sword, on the other hand, he found more unwieldy, and he viewed combat with such weapons as too flowery. War should not be a dramatic, performative act, so why keep up the façade?

Now, though, he wished in ardent desperation for just such an unwieldy and dramatic weapon. He almost feared the moment he would have to fire his gun, as it would take time to reload it after. The battle raged around him, men dashing every direction either in pursuit or flight. Harsh shouts, the clatter of swords, and bangs of guns rent the air, deafening John and lending to the sense of complete pandemonium.

John at last staggered out of reach of the two young pirates’ weapons, and he blinked in a futile, frustrating effort to get the fog out of his eyes. As he straightened himself, he managed to look up across the deck. Immediately, something drew his gaze.

Lestrade stood halfway across the enemy ship’s gangplank, a sword in his hand and a snarl on his face. He dueled two pirates at once, trying to prevent them and others from crossing onto the decks of the _Silver Fox_. The captain was bleeding from a gash at his side, and that sight, coupled with fear of being overrun, spurred John into action.

Ducking between combatants, he scoured the deck. A fallen sword, long and slim of blade, lay a few feet away, and he launched himself at it. Seizing it, he turned. Lestrade was still fighting, but John knew the man well enough by now to see by his movements that he was tiring and in pain.

He had to act quickly. Sword in hand, he dashed forward. He snatched up a rope, and without hesitation, threw himself over the railing.

His momentum sent him flying through the air, anchored to the ship by only the thin cord in his hand. He cursed, but swung his legs to try to steer himself.

Miraculously, it worked. Through the fog and wind and slashing weapons, he soared. And his feet collided with one of the pirates fighting his captain, sending the ruffian tumbling into the waters below. John managed a grin as he swept by Lestrade, who was gaping at him.

His swing reached its height, held him suspended for an instant, then began its reverse arc. John gritted his teeth as the gangplank approached again, and then, at a moment he hoped was the right one, let go of the rope.

A few harrowing seconds of falling through the air, then—CRASH. He landed, hard, on the wooden platform, legs collapsing out from under him and one slipping off the plank entirely. But Lestrade was there, dragging him upright. It seemed he had managed to dispatch his other opponent, but he and John did not stop to speak to one another. Rather, they launched themselves forward onto the decks of the enemy ship.

Combat was different here, John noticed. The pirates no longer fought on the offensive, but instead to defend. Several of Lestrade’s crew had made their way over as well, and were battling their hardest. John kept a firm grip on his stolen sword as he joined them.

But shouts and cries from the _Silver Fox_ ’s decks soon alerted him; he risked a glance back to find the crew retreating, some surrendering. The pirates were returning, loot in their arms. John cursed. Their side was failing, badly.

Lestrade seemed to have realized this as well, for not a moment later his voice rang out, strong and loud over the fighting and the rain.

“Retreat! My men, retreat!”

Damn!

John extricated himself from his own battle and made to follow. But then, without warning of any kind, an agonizing, horrific pain lanced through John. He yelled, barely aware of dropping his weapon, barely aware of falling to the deck. His shoulder felt as if it were on fire; it was as if he were being torn apart from the inside. Groggy and near-delirious from the pain, he turned his head and saw his shoulder was now slick with his own scarlet blood.

Then, something hard, the butt of a gun perhaps, collided with his head. Stars burst into being in his eyes. All sight and sound had retreated into a dull roar around him. He sank down onto the deck, dizzy, now coated with blood. The crew of the _Silver Fox_ were running past him one way, the pirates the other. There was so much noise and so much movement still happening, but John felt as though he were drifting away from it all. The sensation in his shoulder was excruciating, throbbing and numb and hot and cold all at once. Soon, it was all he could focus on.

Nearly.

The crash of the gangplank, unexpected to everyone, made him look up. The wood had splintered in the middle without warning, sending a pair of men— whether theirs or the enemy’s, he did not know— tumbling into the sea. The plank followed right after.

Ropes were being cut, on both ships, the connections linking them falling away.

 _They’re leaving me_ , he realized. He staggered to his feet, swaying.

The _Silver Fox_ ’s sails unfurled, and the wind filled them. The ship moved away, already fading in the fog and the crashing waves. John could discern a glimpse of Lestrade on board, moving quickly among his sailors. Probably ascertaining injuries, counting heads…

 _They will notice I’m not there_ , he said to himself, teeth clenched through the pain. _They will come save me_.

But the pirate ship was pulling away now as well, using the same wind but angling away, distancing themselves from their quarry now that they had done what they had come to do. And John’s ship, John’s home, was slipping away from him.

He sank back to his knees. The blood was soaking half his chest now. His vision blurred—was that the fog condensing on his eyelashes, or was he losing consciousness?—and he felt his heart pounding hard, as if to make up for the blood he was losing. Pain like fire coursed through him.

 _I will not die here_ , he vowed, as he raised his gaze to look up at the silhouettes above him, stepping closer. Some had realized one on board was not, in fact, a pirate.

A figure moved away from its fellows and knelt down. John looked up to see an angular face, framed by dark hair. And those eyes… piercing, sharp, intelligent eyes.

Ruthless eyes.

“You’ll do, won’t you?” the figure said, a smirk playing across pale lips. Then, the pirate addressed his fellows. “He is wounded. Take him below-decks.”

John got one last glimpse of the _Silver Fox_ before it disappeared into the fog. Before he was taken down, down into the depths of a pirate ship.

_I will not die here._

 

* * *

 

John waited, alone. The rain, proving not to be as severe as feared, was now coming down in a gentle shower. However, the ship rocked, and the waves were choppy. Luckily, this was not the worst weather John had endured at sea.

 _Luckily_. He rolled his eyes. This wasn’t a situation he should call lucky.

Upon bringing him below-decks, one of the pirates had tended to his wound. He did not seem to have medical training, but he had been able to stop the bleeding, apply a sticky poultice, and wrap a bandage around John’s shoulder.

The pirate’s infirmary was cleaner than John had presumed it would be. Very sparsely supplied, but neat and organized. He had been picturing a filthy, wet, horrible space. Not… this.

Before he could observe more about the room, however, footsteps sounded. He looked up toward the door, in time to watch a man enter the space.

“Ah, he has lived to tell the tale.”

John tensed. That voice was one he knew; the man who spoke was the man who had ordered him to be taken below-decks. Likely the captain.

He didn’t elaborate on his initial words, but simply observed. John took the opportunity to examine him in turn.

He was tall, slender, and leaned against the wall, an eyebrow cocked. The light was too dim for John to get as sufficient a look at him as he desired, but he could see the man was pale with dark hair. The orange light from the lantern cast rather ominous shadows across his face, obscuring most of his features. His fingers were wrapped around the hilt of a gleaming sword, which he held unsheathed against his shoulder

“How is the shoulder, sailor?” he asked, the smallest of smirks tugging at his lip.

“What do you plan to do with me, pirate?” John asked. He didn’t want to bother with meaningless pleasantries. Not with this man.

The pirate’s eyebrow crept higher. “Believe me, I did not intend to have you aboard. Your men left you behind.”

“They didn’t know,” John snapped. “It isn’t their fault.”

“Nevertheless,” he waved a hand, dismissive. “If I am to keep you-”

“Hang on,” John cut him off. Dread sank through his stomach, lead-like. “Keep me? You’re taking me prisoner?”

The pirate’s smirk grew. “That’s a harsh word, isn’t it? I had hoped we could be civil.”

Civil? Fury surged through John. How dare this man, so amused and teasing in the face of John’s predicament, expect a civil discussion from John?

“Listen,” John snapped, frustrated. “I don't care what your expectations of this conversation are. I only care that you have attacked a ship of the British Royal Navy and kidnapped a crew member. You fly no flag of allegiance, which makes you a pirate. Which, in turn, makes you my enemy.”

The man’s expression turned to one of slightly mocking amusement. “We did save your life,” he pointed out. “Your men were retreating. I could have just as easily tossed you into the water so I didn’t have to deal with you.”

“So why didn’t you? Why keep me? Why tend to my wound?”

The man didn’t reply, just watched again, appraising both John and the work the other pirate had done—the bandage around John’s wound.

But John didn’t want to listen to silence, didn’t want to be watched. He tried to sit up, only to be pushed back down by the captain’s steady hands.

“Where is my ship? What of my men?”

“ _Your_ men?” the pirate asked, looking surprised. “You are not the captain.”

“I’m first mate, you git,” John barked. “Now tell me what happened to the men and the ship.”

There was a long pause, and then the pirate sighed. “I ordered my crew to return after we gathered supplies-”

John scoffed. “Gathered,” he echoed, mocking. “You plundered us.”

The pirate tilted his head. “If I may finish…” John glared back, refusing to feel scolded. “After we finished with your ship, we pulled back, as did your men. I feared the fog would worsen. I do not know what happened to your ship after we parted.”

John pushed hard against the man’s restraining hands once again, but cried out and fell back, both from the pain and from his anger. “You still wounded some of my men. I saw! They might be dead by now!” he gritted out.

“Not our intention, I assure you.”

“No!” John cried. “You launched an unprovoked invasion of our ship and attacked the men on it. Your intention _was_ to cause harm.”

The pirate considered him with a cocked head, still looking amused. “You have a point.”  John only scowled in response. How dare he continue to take this so lightly?

“In my experience, the members of the Royal Navy are complicit in certain… international affairs,” the man continued. John frowned, unsure what he meant but slightly hesitant to ask, considering his current position. “Still, all your wounded made it back to the ship. And you’ve a good doctor on there, haven’t you?”

John nodded and let out a breath, trying to keep the worry from showing on his face. “What of _your_ doctor? Should he not take a look at this?” he asked with a glance down at his shoulder.

The pirate looked down too, lips pressing together. “Our doctor, it seems, was killed in the struggle. We will endeavour, nonetheless, to tend to your injury.”

John considered that for a moment, eyes on the bandaged wound, hoping those efforts would be enough. Then he turned back to face the pirate. “So what are you going to do with me? Since it seems we’re stuck together.”

“Well,” the pirate’s mischievous look was back—assuming it had ever completely left—in his cocked brow and crooked mouth. “You’ve proven yourself a brave fighter, if a bit… unrefined. I believe we could have a use for you.”

John stared, surprised. That almost sounded… promising. “So I’m... _not_ to be a prisoner, then?”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard of pirates,” the captain sighed. “But you appear to have an uninformed idea of how _my_ crew, at least, operates. I think you shall be surprised.”

He turned to leave, but then paused at the doorway. “Rest now, sailor. We will speak further in the morning.”

“Wait,” John called. “You’ve attacked my ship, are keeping me trapped on yours, and you won’t even tell me your name?”

He looked back and smiled, amused. “You are entirely unafraid, aren’t you?” He chuckled. “The name is Captain Sherlock Holmes. Welcome aboard the _Sea Dragon_.”

And with a wink, he departed.


	2. Aboard the Sea Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets the Sea Dragon's crew, but can he really allow himself to fraternize with pirates?

John spent a fitful night and day in the infirmary. His wound opened up again, several hours after Sherlock Holmes departed, and from then on, John could not keep himself fully awake. He drifted in and out of wakefulness for ages, dim awareness of people moving around him, poking and prodding and doing who knew what else to his injury. It was uncomfortable, but he supposed he should be grateful they had not sent him into the brig or tied him down. Most likely, this was because they were in the middle of the ocean; there was nowhere for him to go, after all. Yes, that would be why.

Surely pirates would not trust a Navy man to be free otherwise.

One morning, when the sun began to stream through the porthole, John at last mustered the strength to sit up. He winced. The wound in his shoulder, though it could be much worse, much closer to his heart, still sent fiery pain through his arm. Still, it was more manageable than it had been for hours.

“How are you?” a deep voice asked, and John jumped.

Sherlock Holmes, leaning on the door frame, apparently had arrived without making a sound. He watched with keen eyes, flicking all over John’s form. John resisted the urge to squirm under the gaze.

“Could be better.” He could be _not_ on a pirate ship, for one.

“Do you feel well enough to step outside? It’s more comfortable than in here.” Holmes nodded up toward the deck.

John blinked. He had not expected to be allowed to move about, injured or not. But not one to reject a gift such as this, he stood carefully, right hand pressed over his left shoulder. He followed Holmes above, and squinted in the bright sunlight.

The _Sea Dragon_ was clean, unexpectedly so. It was a schooner, with sails of a dark gray shade, the color evocative of the clouds from the previous night. The vessel was slimmer than the _Silver Fox_ , but a bit longer too. Sleek and strong. Just how John imagined a pirate ship to look. Well, without the tattered sails, filth, and death…

Sailors went about their work, barely glancing at him and Holmes. They appeared to know that John was the captain’s business, and stepped out of the way with brief respectful nods. Then, John performed a double-take when he noticed something unexpected about the crew.

The members of the Royal Navy, as well as privateers and every other group of sailors John had ever encountered, were notorious for their superstitious beliefs. Chief among them was the one about women bringing ill fortune at sea. Sherlock Holmes, it seemed, did not hold to those beliefs. Women were as numerous on desk as men, going about their work with casual ease. Some wore their hair loose, others tied back in loose buns. But what really made John’s eyes widen was the attire most of them wore.

“Trousers,” he said, cheeks heating when he realized he actually had spoken. “On the women.”

Holmes chuckled. “Scandalous,” he said, sarcasm thick in his words. He came to a stop at the prow and turned to look at John, who claimed a place next to him, reluctant and nervous. But at the same time, he was intrigued. He had not gotten a good look at the pirate captain until now, and he found he could not keep his eyes from traveling over the man.

The man was tall, taller than Greg Lestrade, but instead of short graying strands of hair like John’s captain, Holmes let his loose dark curls fall riotously around his face. He wore a shirt the color of pure amethyst with the top two buttons undone, sleek black trousers, and a brilliantly deep blue sash tied around his waist. He wore no hat, allowing his hair to be tousled by the wind. His skin was not as pale as John had thought last night, but was also not as tan as most sailors. Sherlock must have kept to the shade when he could. Beneath his close-fitting clothes, he seemed to possess tight, corded muscles. His gaze was fixed firmly on John, and those eyes…

His irises sparkled like the waves the ocean beyond them, the shades of blue and green and grey matching the seascape almost exactly. John was so distracted that several moments passed before he realized Sherlock had spoken to him.

“... Sorry, what?”

“I said, what is your name, sailor?” Holmes asked.

“Lieutenant John Watson,” he replied, a bit reluctant to give this man any information, but also not seeing another choice.

Then, a question came to mind, one he had been agonizing over all night as he had replayed the conversation with Sherlock over and over. “You really aren’t going to kill me?”

The look Sherlock leveled at him would have made a lesser man quail and apologize for their stupidity, but John, who was not a lesser man, just smiled in defiance.

“Lieutenant,” Sherlock sighed. “Do you honestly think I would be eager to rid myself of the first example of potentially stimulating company in this entire ocean?”

John let out a laugh. Him, stimulating? “Right… So what do you _really_ want with me? You said we could discuss it.”

“I desire information.” As he stared at John, his eyes seemed to glow.

John took a deep breath. “I will not tell you anything.” He would not give a scrap of information to any pirate, even to handsome ones with sultry voices.

“I will ask about nothing that would cause you to betray your precious country, I assure you.” The man pursed his lips. “This is concerning a different matter than the movements of the British Royal Navy or even the operations of the East India Company. Believe me, were I to require that kind of information, I would not need to stoop to boarding insipid ships of the line.”

He broke off, eyes moving across John’s body. Once again, John felt vulnerable, as if the pirate were seeing things no one else could.

“You’re a seasoned sailor,” the pirate said, a small smile playing across his shapely lips. “Been on the seas for several years, living a solitary life but for your crews, not even a wife waiting at port. You have a craving for adventure that very little in England could have satisfied. No, you wanted to see the world, travel freely, but did not want to turn your back on your country entirely. Hence this position on a major ship of the line. You look down on companies like the East India Company for their methods. And,” he paused to smirk, meeting John’s gaze again. “You hate pirates, though this is your first real encounter with any.”

John stared. How the man could somehow know these things, merely by exchanging a few words with John and then just _looking_ at him, was…

“That’s extraordinary,” he breathed.

The pirate blinked. With his wide eyes and slightly parted lips, he looked as though he had never heard praise before. “You think so?”

“Of course.” He stared at the man a moment longer, then forced himself to break his gaze. He turned back to the ocean, hand coming unconsciously up to touch his bandaged shoulder, and winced.

The pirate’s sudden touch on his hand was warm and steady. “Stop that,” he ordered. “I don’t believe touching that injury much just now would be beneficial.”

John almost laughed at that. A pirate, concerned about his well-being? After one of his men had sent a bullet through him?

John shrugged off Sherlock’s hand, resolutely ignoring the pain that ratcheted through his limb at the movement. “Thanks for your concern,” he spat, words bitter on his tongue. “But I do not require it.”

The pirate watched this reaction with an interest mixed with a superior sort of amusement. “You really do not like me.”

“You haven’t given me a reason to do anything else.”

His forehead creased. “Lieutenant, I confess myself baffled. Since you have been on my ship, my crew and I have been nothing but civil to you. We have not threatened you, we have tended to your wound, and we have let you move about freely.”

John felt his pique rising. He turned and faced Sherlock directly, gaze unwavering. “Do you want my opinion?”

Sherlock inclined his head and fell silent, watching with an expectant expression. Reclining one hip on the railing, arms crossed, he looked comfortable, handsome. But John saw only a criminal, smug in his domain.

“You’re a pirate, which means you have no honor or sense of morals whatsoever. You only work for yourself with no regard to how your actions affect others. You kill and steal and destroy property without caring that it might ruin many more people’s lives than you’ll ever see. One sailor dead at sea might mean an entire family goes hungry at port. You have no sense of right and wrong, and your selfishness will destroy everything you care about.”

John stuttered to a halt, his elevated heart rate seeming to have sent an awful lot of blood straight to his shoulder. He again fought off the urge to flinch and focused on glaring at Sherlock. However, to John’s surprise, the pirate did not appear angry. Instead, he simply blinked at John as though startled.

Moments later, though, his icy eyes seemed to shutter and go emotionless. “That’s what you think of us,” he said in a low voice. “But you do not have the full story. You have no idea why we do what we do, why _I_ do what I do. You will have heard that pirates all seek to take down the governments of Europe and the Americas, or that we possess an egomaniacal desire for riches, but you would be wrong, about both me and my crew. I rejected my country of birth, yes, but I did because it betrayed me.”

He straightened abruptly, eyes still cold and now avoiding John’s gaze. “Someone will be along to show you to the galley, Lieutenant Watson.”

And without a backward glance, he departed. John huffed. He couldn’t bring himself to regret insulting the pirate, though the quiet side of his conscience couldn’t hide the fact that he almost wanted Sherlock to stay and say more fascinating, frustrating things.

 

* * *

 

After his tense, confusing conversation with Sherlock Holmes and a hastily-gulped down meal, John returned to the infirmary. Exhaustion and dizziness had overtaken him quite without warning, and he soon had fallen into a fitful slumber.

It took many boring, long, uneventful days of staying in the infirmary before John finally felt well enough to stay on his feet all day. The amount of blood he had lost, not to mention the bump on the head, had made him dizzy each time he had tried to stand.

Yet even though he was still in pain, he longed to be back on deck, experiencing life on the _Sea Dragon_. After all, how many Navy men had been on a pirate ship and lived to tell the tale?

 _That’s optimistic_ , John mused as he laced up his boots one morning, five days after the disastrous battle between the _Sea Dragon_ and the _Silver Fox_. Most men lost to pirates never returned home. But John had already promised himself to not join that list; he was not going to die here. And his brief foray onto the deck had intrigued him about the workings of the pirate ship. How did the women and men get along? What was their home port? Where were they going now?

He stood, intending to stride above and find answers, but the ship rocked just as he did so. He staggered into the wall. A twinge shot up his arm and settled on his wound, which he grabbed with a wince.

No. He was not going to allow this to keep him down in the infirmary again. He straightened and shook off his discomfort, then stepped toward the stairs.

The sun shone strong and bright in the sky, and the waves were choppy but manageable. John paused, closed his eyes, and sighed. The wind was salty and cool on his face, refreshing. God, he had missed this.

When he opened his eyes, he took in the deck. Sailors moved about their business, working with efficiency but also what appeared to be good humour. John hesitated. So far, he had not been treated badly here. In fact, he had been rather ignored more than anything else. It seemed the presence of a Royal Navy lieutenant was not a bizarre enough occurrence for the pirates to take much notice. Perhaps they had seen much stranger, which—considering the apparent eccentricities of their captain—was not so far-fetched a guess.

However, now that he strode across the deck, taking everything in, John noticed several people staring, some with looks of mistrust, others with mere curiosity. He nodded to a few, but was unsure who—if anyone—would be open to him approaching them.

“Hello, Watson,” a voice called. He turned and spotted a young woman he knew. She called herself Winter, and she—along with a boy named Bill Wiggins—had tended to his wound in turns. It seemed Sherlock had ordered the two of them to care for John as best they could. John had, in spite of himself, taken to her. She seemed kind and thorough in her efforts to keep the bleeding stemmed, though according to her, she was simply a deckhand and a poor substitute for their late doctor. While she worked on John’s shoulder, she always hummed. Her bright attitude had made the infirmary seem a bit brighter, if only for the short time she was there.

“Hello, Winter,” he nodded and approached her. She was crouched on the deck, scrubbing at it with vigor with a brush. A bucket of sea water sat next to her. He watched her capable movements for a moment in silence, until she lifted her gaze to him.

“Feeling better?” She flicked her long coppery-brown hair over her tanned shoulder. Her accent was unusual, not quite English. Something out of the West Indies, he suspected, though he had never asked.

“I am,” he nodded. “I wanted to see what is going on up here.”

She shrugged. “Not much. Captain reckons we’re still on our route. Making good time.”

“Where are we headed?” he pressed. “What is your port?”

Her smile vanished, and her eyebrow rose. “I think you’d better take that up with the Captain. He…” she cleared her throat. “He did not authorize me or Billy to tell you anything of that nature.”

Of course. He pursed his lips. “Thanks anyway. Where is your captain?”

Her hazel eyes darted across the deck. “Over there with Ekene.” She jerked her head to the side, and he followed the movement.

Sure enough, he spotted Sherlock standing by the prow of the ship with another pirate. The captain had been elusive the past week, not coming to see John in the infirmary once.

“Thanks,” he said to Winter, leaving her to her work. As he strode away, he heard her begin to hum her usual melody.

John advanced on Sherlock, curious, as the unknown man—whom Winter had identified as Ekene—gestured to him with an intricate series of hand movements. Unable to resist, John approached. The two did not appear to notice him, wrapped up as they were in their discussion.

“Ah, Lieutenant Watson,” Sherlock said, his gaze landing on John, a twinkle appearing in those distractingly lovely eyes. “Joining the realm of the amoral pirates, are you?”

John flushed slightly, remembering that bit of their last conversation. “I suppose I am.”

Sherlock glanced at the other pirate, whose fingers flew, his expression amused. The pirate captain chuckled and signed something back. John watched, utterly left out.

“That all, Captain?” the man, Ekene, then asked in a rough voice with a glance and small nod at John. His brown eyes were almost golden in the sunlight, full of a quiet intensity.

“Yes, Ekene. Let me know what you find,” he replied, aloud and with signs, the former apparently for John’s benefit. Ekene nodded and took his leave.

“Best navigator I’ve ever met,” Sherlock told John, nodding at the man’s retreating form. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Just…” John hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to phrase this. “You say you want me on your ship. But you’ve not given me anything to do.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. His arms were crossed, and he leaned against the railing, casual as could be. The very picture of a captain in his element. “You are nursing a serious wound, Lieutenant. According to Winter and Wiggins, you have been indisposed these last few days. I am sorry for it.”

“I’m better now,” John insisted. “And I want to do something. You say I’m not prisoner. I need to do something.” He did not know how else to explain it; he just knew he would succumb to fear and worry and pain without work.

Sherlock tilted his head. “All tasks have been allocated already. But I suppose I can introduce you to my own Lieutenant. Perhaps she can find something for you to do.”

He strode down the stairs. John followed, startled.

“She?” he echoed.

Sherlock looked askance. “Irene is one of the most capable sailors I have known.” His tone did not allow for further questions.

When they found her, Irene was sitting propped against a mast, working at a mass of thick, possibly hopelessly-entangled ropes. She, like many of the women aboard, wore trousers, though hers had to be the most-closely fitting garment John had ever seen. They were practically a second skin. John felt himself blush.

When Sherlock grew near enough to do so, he spun about the mast and dropped next to her in a single graceful motion. Irene’s dark hair, wore long and loose, hung in her face, so Sherlock tucked a lock behind her ear so he could see her. “Irene.”

“Hello, pet,” she said without looking up. John frowned at her word choice. It seemed rather fond, perhaps intimate, especially for a lieutenant addressing the captain. “What do you need?”

“Have you any tasks for our… new crew member here?” Sherlock glanced up, and John scowled down at him. He wasn’t a crew member.

Irene looked up, however, and appraised John. Her icy blue eyes were sharp. “Well, he can untie these.” She scooped up the ropes in one go and tossed them upward into John’s arms. He caught them, staggering back a bit at the sudden weight.

“That’s all?” he asked without thinking. Irene’s thin eyebrows lifted, in a manner rather reminiscent of Sherlock’s usual expression.

“That’s all,” she said. She leaped to her feet in a smooth move, then turned to tug Sherlock to standing as well. “Come on, you.”

Sherlock allowed her to drag him away, smiling. John watched, affronted. That was it? Relegated to a menial task and dismissed?

Sighing, he sat down in Irene’s place and set to work. As he worked his fingers between the insane knots, he saw Irene and Sherlock standing near the stern. They were standing rather close together, John thought, and laughing together.

 _What are you doing, Watson?_ He frowned then and turned back to the ropes. _He’s a pirate. Who he spends time with don’t matter._

 

* * *

 

That evening, after the ropes had been untangled, a torn sail had been repaired, and the sun had retreated to the edge of the world, John leaned on the mast that had been his only friend the whole day. He had eaten, keeping to himself the entire meal, even as the crew of the _Sea Dragon_ laughed and conversed loudly around him. Ekene had invited John to sit with him, Winter, Wiggins, and a few others, but John had declined. He was not much in the mood for socializing with pirates at the moment. Ekene had shrugged and returned to his friends, patting John rather kindly on his good arm as he had left.

Across the galley, Irene had noticed the exchange, watching with that piercing expression. John couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but he did notice Sherlock’s conspicuous absence from her side, for the first time all day.

Now, on the mostly-empty deck with the sea around him, he could almost pretend he was not on the _Sea Dragon_ , not surrounded by pirates, not trapped with the people he had heard such horrific tales of for years.

But were they so bad? He had seen nothing but a happy, hard-working crew. There were no signs of mistreatment of the women, no indication of any crime being done. And Sherlock… he was another mystery entirely.

As if by magic, Sherlock slid into view beside him. For a moment, he simply surveyed the horizon without speaking. John watched him out of the corner of his eyes.

Finally, when the silence had lasted what felt like an age, John sighed. “Did you have something to tell me, _Captain_?” he put as much scathing derision into the last word as he possibly could.

“Just checking in,” Sherlock’s reply was soft, thoughtful.

“Since when does a pirate… well, care?”

The captain scowled slightly. “You cannot begin to know me.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind, then?” John prompted. He crossed his arms and regarded Sherlock, challenging.

Sherlock’s countenance had become serious, almost stern and urgent. “I shall. Have you heard anything of a specific pirate gentleman, by the name of Victor Trevor, within the last few months?”

“Interrogating me now, are you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s oceanic eyes flickered with faint irritation. “While I may not have preemptively approved of your presence on my ship, I cannot deny the potential usefulness your knowledge could be, now that you are here.”

“But as I said before, why would I ever help a pirate?” John snapped.

Sherlock huffed out a frustrated breath between his teeth. “Lieutenant Watson, just because I am a pirate does not mean, contrary to your opinion toward me and my kind, that I have no ability to care for other people.”

“Prove it.”

“I am trying to,” Sherlock snapped, but he stopped. His voice had risen to a louder volume than it should have for a civil conversation. When he resumed speaking, it was a lower, more sober voice. “How is your shoulder?”

John blinked in surprise at the non sequitur. “Erm…”

“Here,” Sherlock extracted a bottle of amber liquid from a pocket. He took a quick swig, then proffered it to John.

John swallowed a small amount and gagged a bit. “How do you drink… whatever that is?” he sputtered.

Sherlock grinned. “Only out of necessity,” he replied. “What I would not give for a bottle of proper wine… Still, it will help the pain.”

He edged forward, eyes on John’s shoulder. “Your wound may need to be cleaned,” he declared. “My late ship doctor always claimed the wounds he treated healed better and faster if they were kept clear of dirt or other contaminants. If I may?”

He shifted forward. John tugged his shirt collar out of the way so Sherlock could gain access to the wound. The next few minutes passed in silence while Sherlock worked, pulling back the bandages, wiping off the wound, and retying everything. All the while, John wondered at the strangeness of the situation, at how he was allowing a pirate to touch his bare skin. He really should have insisted he do this himself, but somehow he had not thought to stop Sherlock.

At last, the pirate stepped back, tossed the damp rags onto the deck, and caught John’s gaze again. “Better?” he asked, pulling the bottle from John’s grip and sipping from it.

“Perhaps a bit,” John admitted. He took the bottle back, though, and gulped some of the horrible concoction down.

Sherlock watched, his eyes amused. “Lieutenant,” he began. “I fear I must ask you again. I need answers-”

“About your friend.”

Sherlock nodded. “I suppose you could call him that.”

“Right, of course.” John pursed his lips. “I forgot. Pirates don’t have friends.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “You know nothing about me. You may have your ideas about pirates, but I assure you, we have bonds just as you-”

“No,” John interrupted. “Not just as I do. I have a crew. But they’re more than just friends; they’re my family, not by blood, but by choice. So don’t you dare try to say your connection to your people is somehow unique. And while you’re at it, don’t try to manipulate my feelings. I won’t feel sympathy for you, no matter how hard you try to make me.”

Sherlock leaned forward, his greater height apparent even with both of them sitting. Perhaps it was just his presence that made him seem to loom. His eyes were dark, and hard. “Victor Trevor. Have you heard?”

John glanced down at Sherlock’s hands, half-expecting to find a weapon lending more gravity to his words. His hands were empty though, just clenched at his sides.

So John was not going to be permitted to leave without answering, it seemed. He sighed, shifted his weight, and took another drink. After he lowered the bottle, Sherlock’s eyes never having left his, he sighed once more. “I’ve heard of many pirates, but few by name. No Trevors.”

Sherlock was unnaturally still. “Auburn hair, tall. Seven and twenty years old, or he would be now. Nothing?”

John scoffed, cutting off Sherlock. “It may disappoint you to know, but the Navy deals with other things besides pirates. We don’t just sit around and gossip about your kind. Besides, what does one pirate matter?”

Sherlock shifted. “They do when there is a much bigger scheme at work.”

John frowned. “Such as?”

Sherlock did not reply, and John felt irritation surge within him. “Sherlock, I’ve never heard of your so-called friend. I can’t help you.”

Something twisted in Sherlock’s expression then, so quick John almost missed it. But he didn’t, and realization set in without warning. The look in Sherlock’s eyes, the genuine tone of his voice, made him believe the man. He may be a pirate, but he might actually be truthful about his worry over his friend.

That still did not exonerate him of his own crimes, though, John reminded himself. He still attacked innocent ships, still sailed without allegiance to any country, still defied every law John had been bound to all his life.

These thoughts resounding in his head, John was the first to wrench his gaze away from Sherlock and his fathoms-deep eyes. “Listen, you act as if I should be endlessly thankful for what you have done for me. But I don’t see why. You’re the one who got me into this mess.”

“You’re just prejudiced against people like me,” Sherlock snapped.  
“Against criminals? Yes, I am!” John stepped closer, getting in Sherlock’s face. He had had enough. He was in pain, trapped on a ship he had no desire to be on, and this man was behaving as though _he_ were the wronged one. “I’ve known plenty of men who have scars because of people like you. Or they’ve lost friends, brothers-in-arms, siblings. You are what is wrong with the world. I don’t care you think you have a good reason. You do not.”

Sherlock held his gaze. “You theorize without all the facts, Lieutenant.”

“It’s not a theory,” John growled. “May I go now?” He could not stand to be in Sherlock’s presence another moment.

Sherlock blinked, then nodded. His expression was still hard, icy. “Yes. Goodnight, Lieutenant Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice the chapter count has gone up, because I restructured some things :) 
> 
> More action coming soon in the next chapter!


	3. Sparring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An incident on board the ship makes John re-evaluate things, especially the troublesome captain.

“Oi, sailor boy!”

John turned to find Irene, along with a few other pirates, standing in a small circle near the prow. The setting sun sent slanting rays through a patch of clouds from beyond the portside railing, glinting off the sharp metal blades each person clutched in their hands. Wary, John approached.

“What’s this?”

“Sparring,” Irene purred with relish. “Thought you might want in on a match or two. It’s a good way to pass the time.”

She twirled a thin rapier in her hands, and John wondered how she could make such a move seem so lewd. Perhaps it was something in her expression, the way she could look so wicked, enticing, and playful all at once.

“Yeah, alright. Why not?”

Irene grinned, all teeth. “Excellent. I think I’ll go next,” she declared, to raucous cheers. “And I think I’d like to spar…” She turned her gaze onto each pirate in turn, before stopping her sweep at John. “The sailor boy.”

Among the cheers and shouts, John found himself shoved forward into the center of the little ring. Startled, he looked around. It appeared as if nearly all the crew had gathered to watch the sparring.

 _Brilliant_ , he thought as Winter handed him her sword. A massive audience of pirates to watch a sailor who barely knew how to use a sword.

Irene turned to him, a smirk on her red lips. “Your shoulder is up for this, right Watson?”

He nodded. “It should be.”

They faced off, but before John could make firm his hold on his sword, Irene was moving. Her weapon collided with his, sending vibrations up his limb. He winced and pushed her sword away, staggering slightly. She waited for him to right himself, then stepped forward again. This time, her thrust sent his sword high, arm jerking with it as he fought to keep his grip. Damn, she was strong.

He felt hands pushing him back to the center of the ring and knew he must have staggered farther this time. He clenched his teeth. A pirate would not beat him, he promised himself.

Irene’s sword flashed in the sunlight as, again and again, she moved to attack. And again and again, John struggled to keep her at bay. Time passed, though John was not sure how long. His shoulder protested, aching more with each blocked hit. Sweat dripped down his forehead.

Finally, as Irene’s sword swung around toward his chest, his hand spasmed without warning. His own weapon went sideways, just glancing off hers. And her sword slipped through his reach and came to rest, tip sharp even through his clothes, over his heart.

The pirates yelled their approval. Several clapped Irene on the back, and one shook her hand over her head. John stepped out of the way, though he felt a hand on his arm. He looked down to find Ekene at his side.

“You fought well,” he said in his husky voice, a smile on his lips.

“Not well enough,” John muttered, and the man grinned.

“Practice,” he said.

Irene appeared at his side, and she slung an arm around each man’s shoulders. “Nice work, Watson,” she smiled. “For an amateur.”

The celebration died down, and John turned, refusing to rise to Irene’s jibe. Two new opponents were now facing off, Winter and a man whose name John didn’t know.

John watched with apprehension. Winter’s opponent was a full head taller and at least two stone heavier; how was she going to survive, let alone win?

She raised her weapon, eyes sparkling. She was young, barely eighteen years of age, but bright and capable. In battle, however, John could not help but feel skeptical.

“Alright, Winter,” the man said, lifting his own sword. “Let’s see if you’ve improved since last we did this.” His countenance was serious.  
“Oh, I think you’ll be surprised, Sebastian,” Irene called, eliciting cries of assent or challenge from the spectators.

Winter and Sebastian’s weapons remained immobile in the air for several tense seconds. Then, a ringing clash as the first contact set off the duel.

Sebastian parried Winter’s blade, thrusting it to the side. But she recovered immediately, whirling around to swing her blade toward him again. They engaged in a series of motions, whirling limbs and slashing blades, so rapid and smooth that John could hardly follow the individual moves as they flowed into one another. However, he quickly realized the advantages on both sides. Sebastian had more strength, but Winter was quick and agile. Her smaller size made her nimble, as she proved when she at last ducked under his swinging blade to thrust hers toward his gut.

She stopped at the last moment, and the two fighters regarded one another. The tip of Winter’s sword rested just against Sebastian’s stomach. A lethal blow, had it been a real battle.

Sebastian turned red in response to the yells and cheers for Winter, who stood, tossing her long plait over her shoulder. They shook hands and she returned to the crowd, where she was swarmed by congratulating pirates.

“Alright, alright!” Irene called. “Let the girl alone. Kitty, your footwork is improving, but don’t let Sebastian play with you so long next time!”

Winter grinned and nodded.

“Oh, come on!” Sebastian protested. He still had not moved from the center of the circle. “Rematch!”

Several of the pirates groaned. Irene turned a stern gaze on him.

“Winter won in a fair fight,” she said. “Rematches are only valid if there was a rule of combat violated or other extenuating circumstances.”

Sebastian looked livid. A woman near the back called out, “You just don’t like being defeated by a fighter half your size!”

Laughter rippled through the group, but Sebastian did not join in. “Maybe I don’t like being defeated by a woman!” he barked.

The crowd let out groans, grumbles, and protestations at that. John frowned at him.

“There’s no need to be so-” he began, but Kitty Winter stepped forward again.

“It’s alright, Watson,” she smiled. As she turned that look on Sebastian, however, it turned more snide. “If he wants another go, fine.”

“Kitty-” Irene frowned. “You won. You don’t need to indulge his wounded pride.”

She shrugged. “I know.” Then leaning close enough for only Irene and John to hear, she added in a whisper, “I just think it’d be fun to beat him again.”

She stepped back into the center of the circle and swung her sword to the ready position. Sebastian did the same, a fierce grin on his face. John watched, anxiety pumping through him.

When their swords met this time, the clash seemed even more shocking. But Winter dodged his first blow easily, side-stepping and dancing out of range. Sebastian kept coming, more relentless this time around.

Soon, their fight brought them to the edge of the circle of pirates, which shifted in a hasty effort to avoid the flashing blades. Sebastian seized the opportunity to break through the human wall and into the open part of the deck. Winter pursued him, and with the new arena, the dynamic of the fight shifted. Both fought harder and faster than ever, their feet moving as much as their swords.

Then, without warning, or so it seemed to John, Winter gasped. Sebastian’s sword had sliced a gash on her arm. The blood was shocking against her light blue shirt. John’s heart jolted at the sight.

Irene called for a halt to the spar.

Sebastian ignored her. So did Winter.

“Want to play dirty, then?” she asked, shouting over the clash of their weapons.

“Want to shut you up, you little-”

But the rest of Sebastian’s retort was drowned by a sickening sound and a gasp. The fall of his sword had smashed Winter’s downwards, which set her off balance and caused her to stumble toward him. With her thus vulnerable, Sebastian had brought his sword around again, and stabbed straight into her side.

Everything froze for one shivering, stunned second. Then, Winter collapsed, face a mask of shock.

Several of the spectators moved forward, yelling. John was distantly aware of Irene making for Winter, but he himself launched himself at Sebastian. His fist against the man’s face was oh so satisfying.

“You bastard!” he cried. Sebastian had ended up beneath him somehow, looking dazed. Other hands, Ekene’s and Wiggins’ and a few others he did not fully register, joined him in dragging Sebastian far away from Winter. More fists flew, and John saw the pirates’ faces twisted with rage. He would not be surprised if Sebastian did not survive this.

“Sherlock!” Irene screamed. Breathless, John stood and looked around. She knelt, Winter’s head in her lap, and was stroking her hair. The red-haired woman had a cloth pressed to the bloody wound in the girl’s side.

“Sherlock!” Irene screamed again.

Then, the captain appeared, apparently having been below-decks. He skidded to a halt, and his eyes flashed across the scene, taking in the furious crew holding Sebastian down and the blood on the deck before landing on Winter.

Winter, semi-conscious and gasping for breath, eyes flickering under her lids.

“Stop!” he bellowed, and everyone froze from the force of his voice. He stared around, the very picture of authority.

“Secure him,” he said, pointing at Sebastian. “But leave him to me.”

At least six crew members flew back into action, holding down the man or retrieving ropes. They yanked him to his feet and forced him to the mast, where they tied him down.

John, however, watched Sherlock. He had hardly seen him in the past days, having avoided him as best he could since their argument. The captain, in turn, had stopped seeking John out. Now, after days of determined not-looking, John was struck once again by the pirate’s striking features, his melodious voice. But all that was as nothing to the shock John felt as Sherlock turned from Sebastian to look at the wounded girl lying sprawled on the wood before him.

“Winter,” he breathed. His harsh expression melted in an instant as he crossed the deck in three strides and dropped to his knees beside the girl. His hand found hers and held it to his lips. “Winter, it’s alright. Breathe.”

He looked up. “Wiggins!’

“Here, Cap,” the boy appeared with more rags in his hands. The red-haired woman made room for him, and John stepped around her to see better. Wiggins peered at the wound for a moment, then shook his head. “I dunno, Cap. I can stitch her up, but that’s about it.”

Sherlock stared at the wound, countenance focused and intent. “I have an idea. Find me a clean dagger and meet me in the infirmary.” As he spoke, he kept his voice gentle and his grip on Winter’s hand steady.

Wiggins nodded, and he dashed off. The other pirates on deck, now that the threat to Winter had been neutralized, seemed frozen with uncertainty. Only Sherlock moved. He slipped his arms under her limp form and lifted her, adjusting so her head was on his shoulder. Whispering soft reassurances to her, he disappeared below-decks once more.

Irene stood, her hands covered in blood. She brushed them rather absently on her own trousers and regarded her crew.

“Back to work,” she instructed. Her voice did not shake, John noted with admiration. “We’ll let you know how Winter fares, but for now you can do nothing for her but your duties.”

“What about _that_ , Irene?” the red-haired woman asked, gesturing at Sebastian.

Irene glared at him. He was now gagged in addition to being tightly trussed to the mast. He glared back, but with more than a hint of fear.

“Leave him there,” she hissed. “The captain will deal with him in time.”

And everyone dispersed, pointedly ignoring Sebastian, though their eyes were full of fear and, in some cases, tears. Winter was clearly beloved on the ship by all.

His heart was still pounding when Ekene found him, gripping his arm. The poor man’s hands were shaking so much he could not say anything. A rush of sympathy flooded John, and he slung an arm around the man’s shoulders.

“She’ll be fine,” he said, meeting Ekene’s eyes. Ekene was weeping, silently but steadily, but he appeared to take heart at John’s words, even empty as they were.

“Come on,” John continued, feeling compelled to comfort the man. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

 

* * *

 

John and Ekene forced themselves to gulp down a small meal, neither speaking. The images of what had happened to Winter kept flashing in front of John’s eyes each time he blinked. She was so young… He felt rather sick at the thought that she might not survive.

After eating as much as they could manage around their emotional turmoil, the two men returned to the deck. A cluster of pirates surrounded Sebastian. All bore weapons and angry expressions, watching him with fierce eyes. Many were silent, but a few whispered about Winter, wondering and speculating and hoping. Without a word to one another, John and Ekene joined them. A man John didn’t even know laid a hand on his arm and nodded. John returned it, marveling at the solidarity he felt for the group in that moment.

In that moment, they were not pirates, and he was not a member of the Royal Navy. They were all united in their worry for the fate of a bright girl.

Minutes passed with agonizing slowness. John wanted to venture down to the infirmary, but knew without attempting that his presence would be unwelcome. Sherlock and Wiggins would be busy; any distraction could prove damaging to their patient.

John wanted to pace, but more than that, wanted to be able to _do something_. What good was he? He was a seasoned sailor, adept at all manner of ship duties, but he lacked a specialization. He could shoot a flintlock, but could not treat a wound or swing a sword well. How could he call himself a true sailor? He should have been able to help Winter, should have had the battle skills to step between her and Sebastian and block that last awful blow. Or he should have been able to rush forward and help stop the bleeding, help take care of the girl who had shown him nothing but kindness.

But he couldn’t. So what kind of sailor was he?

He buried his face in his hands. That would have to change. He _had_ to learn, to improve. He could not be helpless like this again.

Footsteps thundered up from below-decks, shattering John’s distressed thoughts to dust. Several people realized who it must be, and silence fell.

Sherlock stormed into view, shoulders tense and fists clenched and eyes ablaze. His white shirt was stained with scarlet blood, and his hair was in disarray. John felt his breath catch; the pirate was positively fearsome, awe-inspiring.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock growled.

John and the others retreated as Sherlock stalked toward the mizzenmast. Sebastian didn't move, only stared daggers at his captain.

Sherlock stopped a hairsbreadth from Sebastian's face. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he untied the binding wrapped across the man's mouth and let it fall to the deck.  

Sebastian snarled. “Cut me down.”

“You attacked one of my sailors,” Sherlock growled.

“It was just a spar!”

“No,” Sherlock said. He had appeared on the edge of attack when he had first arrived, but now that he was facing Sebastian he seemed in control, composed, in his element. But also quietly livid. John could not tear his eyes away.

“It was just a spar,” Sebastian insisted again.

“You lost in a fair match, then challenged and goaded your opponent until she agreed to another,” Sherlock whispered. “During your second, unneeded match, you then violated the rules of combat. You deliberately inflicted serious injury on a fellow crew member. What have you to say for yourself?”

Sebastian glared for a moment. “Winter was impertinent,” he murmured. “She needed to be shown her place.”

“Her place,” Sherlock repeated, soft and low and sinister. “And what place might that be?”

“She's a woman! She's got no business fighting with the men!”

That sent a ripple of disapproving mutters through the gathered crew, men and women alike whispering and scowling. John too felt a surge of anger. Sherlock, on the other hand, did not even blink in response to Sebastian's words.

“Besides, she thinks she's all above us,” Sebastian continued. “Thinks she can swing her sword a few times all fancy-like and be a real pirate.”

“The only threat her actions pose to the regard you have of yourself as a man,” Sherlock sneered. “Are those you invent yourself. She is not holding anyone back. No one's successes preclude anyone else's ability to succeed on board my ship. Your inability to distinguish yourself is your own fault.”

Without warning, Sebastian spat in Sherlock's face. The captain leaned back, an eyebrow lifting. Several of the crew started forward, letting out loud protests, but he held up a restraining hand.

“You have betrayed a crew member. In doing so, you have also betrayed me.” Sherlock's voice was now so soft, John had to strain to hear him over the waves. “When we arrive at port, you will depart. You are no longer a part of this crew.

“And I warn you, Sebastian,” his voice dropped to its deepest rumbling growl yet. “If I see you again, if you come near any of my crew, I will ensure that you regret I did not kill you right here on this deck.”

He turned away, and his voice rose to carry across the deck and over the waves. “Take this creature to the brig. Make sure he is secure, and set a round-the-clock watch.” Then, as the crew began to move about him, he added, “But do not harm him... unless he attempts to escape.”

As three deck hands untied the prisoner and began to lead him away, John saw Sebastian and Sherlock exchange a dark look, laced with utter loathing on both sides.

The moment Sebastian was out of sight, however, Sherlock's shoulders sagged, the tension seeping out of him. He extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the spittle on his cheek.

“Sherlock?” Irene murmured, approaching. “How is Kitty?”

He sighed, sadness softening his expression. “She's sleeping now. I hope she'll recover, but…” He shrugged.

“May we see her?” the red-haired woman asked. She linked her arm with Irene's.

“No, Kate,” Sherlock said. “She needs rest. Perhaps in a while.”

The two women nodded and retreated, heads together.

“Ekene,” Sherlock said softly. He gazed around, then spotted the man standing next to John, and signed something with sharp movements.

The navigator joined him, and the two began conferring. John hovered near them, feeling a bit lost. He spotted Wiggins lugging a bucket and headed over to him.

“'Ello Watson,” he greeted. “Alright?”

“How's Winter?”

He shrugged. “Resting. Cap says there's nothing can be done at the moment. I'm just... cleaning up.” He gestured at the scarlet stains spread across the deck.

“Ah,” John nodded. “Need a hand?”

Wiggins' eyebrows rose. “Thanks.”

They set to work with a pair of brushes, labouring in silence for several minutes. “So, Wiggins. You trained under the ship's doctor?”

“That's right.”

“That poultice you make. Next time you’re available, can you show me how to prepare it?”

It may not be swordfighting or proper medical training, but John supposed it was a good place to start nonetheless.

He would not be useless.

 

* * *

 

That evening, John found his way to the infirmary. Ekene had already been and gone, beaming at John when he had caught sight of him in the crew’s quarters.

“She’s alright?” John had asked, relieved at the sight of the man’s smile.  

Ekene nodded. “Perhaps,” he had said. “Captain is with her.”

The man had retired then, but John felt an overwhelming sense of need to see Winter and make sure she was alright before he too bedded down. It had been such a short time since the horrible duel, but he already missed her humming.

The infirmary was brightly lit as John approached. Within, he heard low voices and slowed to listen, not wanting to disturb Winter if she was sleeping.

“You fought well, Irene tells me,” Sherlock was saying.

“Sir, I got stabbed.” Winter was not sleeping after all, it seemed.

“Only because Sebastian cheated,” Sherlock corrected her. “Had it been a fair match, you would have prevailed.”

She chuckled, then whimpered in pain. Sherlock shushed her, and John peeked around the corner into the room.

Sherlock had his back to the door and was stroking Winter’s hair. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “You’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” she ground out. Her face was pale and, as John watched, a tear streaked down it toward her temple. But Sherlock’s finger was there, brushing it away.

“Have you ever known me to lie, little one?”

She gave him a watery smile. “Yes.”

He huffed, seeming surprised. “Well. I mean about important things.”

“Sometimes.”

She grinned wider, and John was sure Sherlock was rolling his eyes. “You know what I mean. I wouldn’t lie about _this_.”

“I know,” she said, still amused. Then, her gaze shifted a bit, and caught sight of John. “Hello, Watson.”

Sherlock started and turned. “Lieutenant,” he murmured.

“I, er, came to see how you are, Winter,” he said and stepped over to kneel at Sherlock’s side.

“I’m alright,” she said. “Captain discovered the sword hadn’t damaged anything important, and he did that thing… what do you call it?”

“I cauterized it,” he said softly. John noticed he was still holding Winter’s hand.

“Yeah that, where you heat metal and put it on a wound to stop it bleeding. You know?” She seemed, now that John thought about it, a touch woozy. He suspected Sherlock had had to give her some of his awful alcoholic substance before performing the cauterization.

“Innovative,” he replied with a glance at Sherlock, who was still looking at Winter.

“Yeah…” Winter’s eyes drifted closed.

"Alright," Sherlock stood. "Go back to sleep."

"Night, Captain."

"Goodnight." He carefully dimmed the lantern in the corner of the room, then turned on his heel and nodded for John to follow. Together, they left the infirmary.

"You applied your own poultice this time," Sherlock observed.

John glanced over his shoulder as they headed up to the deck. He didn't bother to ask how Sherlock knew; it was clear that was just one of his fascinating abilities. "I did. I felt Wiggins has enough to cope with, so I asked him how to mix it.”

Sherlock blinked. "Oh."

They fell into silence up on the deck, holding each other's gaze. Sherlock looked drained, exhausted, and to John's surprise a jolt of sympathy rose within him.

"Well. Goodnight." Sherlock spun on his heel toward the helm.

Before he got far, however, John grasped his arm, stilling him.

"Sherlock. Are you alright?" he asked. He could hardly believe himself, concerned for a pirate. And yet. Sherlock had been so caring and protective, unexpectedly so, with Winter. It was a new side of the man John had not foreseen.

"Of course," Sherlock murmured. He glanced down, then brushed a hand at the stains on his shirt. He seemed unaware of doing so. He made to step away again, but John tugged him back.

"Wait, I..."

Sherlock met his eyes, and whatever John had been about to say vanished from his mind. The pirate looked distant, distracted, probably too worried about his wounded crew member to truly focus on John. "What is it?"

"I..." John swallowed. "With Winter injured, and Sebastian... Well. I could take on some of their duties, if you'd like?"

Sherlock blinked. "You would be willing to do that?"

"Yes."

They held one another's gazes for a long time, then a small smile pulled at Sherlock's lips.

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Call me John," he murmured. Again with his mouth saying things before his mind could authorize them.

"John," Sherlock repeated, low and deep. "Very well. Goodnight, John."

He slipped away, leaving John staring after him and wondering at the realization that perhaps Sherlock Holmes did, in fact, have a heart.

 

* * *

 

Hours passed before John fell asleep in the crew’s quarters, the sound of his own name on Sherlock Holmes’ lips echoing in his mind over and over.


	4. Sherlock's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns many new things, and realizes something true about his own feelings.

John’s ninth day aboard the _Sea Dragon_ found the ship brought nearly to a standstill. The winds had died overnight to nothing, and the sails now hung limp. Overhead, the sun beat down in harsh rays, leading most people to take shelter in whatever shade they could find. The ship stood frozen, sentinel among the endless water, its crew alone but for the vastness of the sea.

John could tell the crew was restless, anxious to be moving along. He did not know where they were to make port, or for what purpose, but he found himself desiring to resume their journey. The sensation of not moving, of being so entirely isolated, felt unnerving. He needed a distraction.

For now, John leaned on the ship’s railing, hand moving up to his shoulder.

“Are you feeling well?” Irene asked from beside him. He nodded.

She and Ekene exchanged a glance. The three of them formed a triangle, Ekene leaning against the mast, Irene perched on a barrel, and John standing.

“So, sailor boy,” Irene smirked. “How’s life on a pirate ship treating you?” She signed her words as well, and John found himself glad Ekene was being allowed in the conversation; Irene was rather intimidating to speak to on her own, and Ekene had a calming presence.

John shrugged. “Not as bad as I thought.” He wasn’t sure how to reply without giving himself away.

Irene and Ekene exchanged an amused, conspiratorial look. “And the Captain?” she pressed. “What of him?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” John evaded. He was grateful Irene could not hear his heart start to pound.

Irene tilted her head. “I was just wondering what he sees in you.”

John frowned, so Ekene elaborated. “Captain Holmes never takes to anyone this quickly.”

Irene nodded. “You may not understand yet, since you just met him, but Sherlock is… special. He holds everyone at a distance. No one,” she raised her eyebrows. “ _No one_ gets past his walls.”

“Why?” John found himself asking.

“It’s how he wants it.”

“But,” Ekene lifted a finger. “He is an honourable man. You may not see it, but he has a reason for leading this life. And he cares… about many things. About justice.”

John glanced at Irene, slightly skeptical. What honourable reason would there be for piracy? But she appeared to agree with Ekene if her emphatic nod was any indication.

“I’ve worked on several ships, sailor boy,” she said. “And I’ve never served under a captain like him. His crew trusts him.”

“To the ends of the earth,” Ekene added. “That is worth all the riches in the world.”

“But-” John stopped himself from saying _he’s just a pirate_ at the last moment. Sherlock may be not as bad as John had been expecting, but that hardly made him the trustworthy, moral saint Irene and Ekene seemed to see.

Irene seemed to read his mind. “He may be a pirate, Watson, but don’t let that fool you. It should tell you something, the way the crew is with him. They follow him— _we_ follow him—out of respect, not fear.”

John watched her closely. She smiled as she spoke, and he could not help wondering.

“Are… are you and him…?” he stammered.

Irene’s eyebrows retreated so high they nearly reached her hairline. Ekene laughed, hearty and genuine. “Me and _Sherlock_?” she exclaimed. “Oh, Watson. You are truly unobservant to an excruciating degree. No, Sherlock and I… I shall just say our tastes run in rather opposite directions.”

John took a second to parse that information, but when he did, his eyes widened. “Oh! So you…” he gestured in a vague manner, not sure what he even meant by the movement.

She grinned, then pointed above them. John followed her finger to the crow’s nest above them. The red-haired woman, Kate, perched in it, clutching a telescope and watching the horizon.

John looked back at Irene, who watched the woman with a surprisingly tender expression on her face. When she glanced at John, however, she waggled her eyebrows in a suggestive manner. John felt his face heat and was sure it had turned bright red.

Irene laughed merrily, and Ekene chuckled. But in spite of John’s embarrassment, he realized the other half of her implication.

“So…” he cleared his throat. How to say this? “So that means Captain Holmes…”

Ekene nodded. Irene, of course, had to attempt to spell it out further.

“He likes men. And by _like_ I mean-”

“Alright!” John cut her off. “I do not need to hear more.”

She grinned at Ekene, then waltzed away. “Come get something to eat, you two!” she called over her shoulder.

John thought that an excellent idea, and made his way to the galley. Ekene accompanied him, and John found himself glad for the company. They spoke about many things from the ocean to their favorite place to make port to what they missed most about the land. Both used vocalized words and signs, which John fumbled his way through with Ekene’s patient guidance. The meal passed quickly. After a lengthy meal and conversation, John returned to the deck, reflecting.

Ekene was a kind man, which John found remarkable. Not remarkable that Ekene was kind—that much was evident every moment—but that John could so easily think that of a pirate.

More surprising, perhaps, was that he had listened to Irene’s and Ekene’s summations of Sherlock’s character. Who had he, John Watson, become in these nine days? Listening to the opinions of pirates, tolerating their captain’s conversation?

He shook his thoughts off as he looked across the deck. Several of the pirates, bored from a lack of work, had paired off and dueling together. They moved with sure motions; it was clear they were well-trained at the sword. John watched with some envy.

He looked to Ekene, desiring to ask him about the training regimen on board the _Sea Dragon_ , but as he opened his mouth, he saw Sherlock approaching from across the deck.

“Gentlemen.” Sherlock’s hands were clasped behind his back, and his eyes darted between John and Ekene. “Everything alright here?”

“Yes,” John replied. “How’s Winter?”

“Recovering well. I suspect she will be able to walk without significant discomfort to her side in just a few days.”

John nodded. “I’m glad.”

“Your shoulder,” Sherlock tilted his head in its direction. “May I see?”

John saw no choice but to obey. Sherlock gently pulled aside his shirt, then peeled back the wrappings. John glanced down. His wound was smarting and an angry red shade to match, strangely tinted darker in other places. It seemed to be closing up, but not entirely. He supposed his exertion may have kept it from healing as well as it could have. And the poultice appeared to not have changed a thing.

To Sherlock, Ekene’s fingers shaped what John suspected was a question, from the way his eyebrows raised. His hands moved too quickly for John to follow, however.

Sherlock signed something back, frowning. Ekene nodded, then took his leave. John watched him go, at a loss for what had just happened.

“I’ve sent him for Wiggins. I’ll see if there isn’t something more we can do for your wound.” Sherlock slipped his hands in his pockets and looked at John. His eyes seemed especially blue today.

“Thank you.” John didn’t know what else to say.

“Irene,” Sherlock turned, calling to her. “Care for a duel?”

John blinked, surprised. He had not realized that might have been the true reason Sherlock had been on the deck. Certainly one of Sherlock’s own crew meant more to him than a guest who sailed with the British Royal Navy. Even with them being on better terms, his attentions to John were likely a mere courtesy.

Not that it mattered to John.

“No,” Irene replied. She approached. Her eyes shifted, shrewd, between Sherlock and John. “I could use some rest. Perhaps later?”

Sherlock inclined his head, and, as she passed him, she let her hand trail along his arm. He smiled with good humour, then turned back to John.

“ _We_ could duel?” John offered, knowing his tone was feeble. Still, he hoped.

“You’ve not trained much with the sword,” Sherlock said with no small amount of amusement. John tried not to bristle with irritation, despite the truth of the other man’s words. “Your grip is amateur, and your actual technique…” He shook his head. “You’d not last long in a proper battle. You were lucky Irene allowed you to try as long as she did during your duel.”

“I did alright when you attacked my ship,” John snapped.

“Yes, by swinging from a rope like a madman,” Sherlock’s lips twitched.

“You… saw that?” John felt himself flushing. Probably from the heat pouring down from the sun.

“I did. It was foolhardy but, I suppose, effective nevertheless. Still, your sword skills as they are would do nothing to help you in a similar situation. They are a liability, in fact. Any opponent would recognize your lack of training and would exploit every hole in your defenses. I can only hope your marksmanship is more refined.”

Sherlock’s tone sounded provoking. John raised his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock shrugged. “Merely an offer.”

That threw John. “An… an offer?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “If you are to be part of this crew, at least for the time being, it is best you are trained in various forms of combat. We all need those skills, in this line of work.”

John could not decide if he should feel resentful at the allusion to belonging to the _Sea Dragon_ or relieved at Sherlock’s reference to the position being temporary. He settled for a confusing mix of the two. “So you’re offering to, what, train me?”

In reply, Sherlock bent down and picked up a sword, left behind by one of the other pirates. He hefted it, twirling it with practiced ease. “Yes.”

He watched John, who stared back. The captain made a striking silhouette, the wide ocean and clear blue skies a backdrop making his dark hair and intense eyes all the more dramatic. His shirt was something between green and blue today, open at the throat as usual and rolled up to the elbows. He wore no jacket over it, due to the heat, and his trousers were of a thin, rather close-fitting dark material.

John met his gaze. He reached out and took the sword from Sherlock’s hand. Their fingers brushed. John grinned.  “When do we start?”

 

* * *

 

Wiggins arrived as they were about to began and examined John’s shoulder.

“Dammit!” he scowled.

“What’s wrong?” John tensed.

“I think the poultice made things worse,” he bit his lip. Sherlock approached, concern flashing across his face. “You must be sensitive to it. That… That happened once before…”

He trailed off, but Sherlock’s eyes widened. He seized Wiggins by the shoulder.

“What can be done?”

Wiggins quailed under his gaze. “Clean it off and keep it from getting dirty.” His gaze flicked between Sherlock to John and back. “I’m sorry, Cap, I-”

“It’s alright,” John said with a sigh. “It isn’t your fault.”  

He helped the boy clean off the wound again, then clapped his shoulder as he left, head bowed. Sherlock watched, tense.

“It’s fine,” he repeated to the captain, who only lifted a sardonic eyebrow.

“We shall see,” he murmured. “Now…”

He took John’s sword and wrapped a cloth about the blade. At John’s questioning glance, he rolled his eyes.

“Cannot have you running me through, now can I?” But—perhaps to appease John or to even the odds—he wrapped his own sword as well.

Apparently satisfied with his safety measures, Sherlock had moved near the stern. He twirled and slashed his own weapon, seemingly warming up his muscles. John watched a moment, then joined him.

“What do I do?” he asked. “Where do we begin?”

Sherlock smirked his customary smirk. “Your grip, firstly,” he said, then approached. “It’s atrocious. Miracle you’ve survived this long.”

“I’m a good shot,” John retorted. Sherlock laughed and stepped forward.

“Hold out your sword,” he instructed.

John obeyed, but just then, his hand spasmed. He growled in frustration; that had happened several times since the disastrous end to his duel with Irene the previous day. He wondered at the cause. Perhaps stress? Worry over Winter and his own injury? He did not know.

Sherlock noticed, of course. He frowned and examined John’s hand closely.

“Relax,” he said then, locking his gaze on John. And something in his voice seemed to act as a balm, easing the tension in John’s hand.

After that, they spent the better part of an hour adjusting John’s grip on the sword, then moving through a slowed-down series of basic parries, thrusts, and other motions the names of which John quickly forgot. Sherlock walked him through each one, standing just behind him and guiding his arms and legs though the correct sequences.

John felt clumsy, uncoordinated, especially next to Sherlock. The pirate moved with such an easy grace, his sword controlled as a limb. However, the man was patient to an extent John had not predicted, though he insisted John repeat each move multiple times, scoffing and rolling his eyes each time John did not perform to his standards.

Yet there was something fond in even those expressions. Or was John just imagining it?

Though the sun tracked across the sky toward the sea, the air around the _Sea Dragon_ was still suffocating. A slick layer of sweat coated John’s skin, causing his shirt to cling to his body. After a long while of this disagreeable sensation, John begged Sherlock allow him a moment’s break. He stepped to the railing, swallowed a bit of his water ration for the day, then dragged his shirt over his head.

That was a definite improvement. The breeze no longer pressed the sticky cloth to him, but instead cooled his skin. He sighed and swept his damp fringe back, then turned back to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s gaze whipped back up to John’s face, though John had the distinct impression he had been looking at a place lower on John’s body instants before. A slight curl of his lips appeared as the pirate glanced down at John’s chest.

“Better?” he asked. He did not lift his eyes, and John did not squirm. He knew he was strong, well-muscled, and was comfortable in his body.

And the scrutiny of Sherlock Holmes was far from unwelcome.

“Much,” John smiled. He lifted his sword again, twitching it to beckon Sherlock to move. “Let’s go then.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It _is_ hot,” he smiled, leaning his sword against the helm. His fingers were nimble as they moved to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. He shrugged it off, tossed it to the side, and ran his fingers through his hair. John could not help but let his eyes roam over the man’s form. His skin was a darker on his arms than on his torso, which was pale as fresh cream. He was lean but muscular and bore few blemishes. One gash on his side, a scar several years old, looked like that of a bullet graze. A few other marks stood out, but Sherlock turned to face him again, thus cutting John’s examination short.

“Shall we continue?” Sherlock asked. There was a sparkle in his eyes that made John worry the pirate knew exactly what John had been looking at.

John swallowed and nodded.

Now, things were different. John was intensely aware of Sherlock’s body so close to his own as the man guided John’s sword arm through motion after motion. His chest was not touching John’s back, but it may as well have been. John gritted his teeth. _Pirate, remember, he’s a pirate,_ John reminded himself.

 _He’s an honourable man_ , the memory of Ekene’s voice seemed to answer. _He cares about justice._

Finally, Sherlock consented to allow John to practice _against_ him, instead of with him. John felt a simultaneous sensation of relief and loss as the captain stepped back and moved to face him. Despite the heat, his back felt cold with the loss of Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock bowed in an almost playful manner, arms out to the sides. John watched, amused. Sherlock tilted his head up, body still bent in his bow, to meet John’s eyes.

“Ready, Lieutenant?”

John’s sword felt more familiar now, and he nodded. Yet still, his hand twitched involuntarily. Damn. He took a breath to steady himself, Sherlock's patient expression calming him.

He lunged forward. 

The weapons collided, reverberating. Then, they parted, swept out, and met once more. Over and over, Sherlock and John’s swords struck. This time, as opposed to his fight with Irene, John felt more confident. He could follow Sherlock’s weapon and even anticipate some of his next moves. Still, Sherlock was quicker, more practiced, able to execute motions John hadn’t seen or imagined. John struggled with both his sword and his feet to keep up with the mock-battle.

After only a few minutes, John staggered back. His hand found his shoulder, which twinged with a sharp pain as he did so. His hand jerked to the side, unbidden.  “Sherlock,” he gasped. “I have to stop.”

Sherlock lowered his sword and approached. Concern flickered in his eyes. “Of course.” He helped John sit next to the helm and knelt beside him. “I fear I have pushed you too far today, John.”

“My fault. I shouldn’t have let you,” John groaned. “Bloody stupid shoulder.” He forced himself to sit straighter. “I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “John,” he said. His voice was uncharacteristically tentative. “Come back to my cabin. You need a comfortable place to rest for a time. And… I feel there are still things we need to discuss. About… why I do this.” He gestured at the ship, the sea. “You do not yet have a full picture of… well, me, and I find that… unacceptable.” He frowned, as if at a loss as to why he felt this way. “I can send for food,” he added.

John considered for a moment, or rather pretended to do so. Another opportunity to speak with Sherlock privately was not a chance he planned to pass up. Furthermore, the sun was setting, and his stomach was calling for attention again.

“Let’s go then.”

Sherlock’s smile was his only reply, but it was enough.

So John took Sherlock's proffered hand, climbed to his feet, then followed the captain below-decks.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock led John to the captain’s cabin. The rest of the crew bunked together in their quarters, of course, but John found himself intrigued in spite of himself to see where Sherlock spent his time alone.

He stepped inside the space, and Sherlock gestured for John to sit in a chair. He did so, gazing around the cabin with unabashed interest.

Sherlock’s home on the _Sea Dragon_ was cluttered and a bit chaotic, but warm and comfortable as well. Two lanterns waited in opposite corners, and Sherlock moved to them, lighting up the spaces the sunset colors from outside could not reach. A thick Persian rug in dull reds and golds was spread across the floor and a neat bed stood in one corner.

A series of peculiar artifacts littered the shelf above it, as well as the surface of a small desk, which was shoved in the corner of the cabin. Several of those objects were recognizable as navigational tools—compasses, telescopes in varying sizes, measuring tools, and maps—but others looked like they would have been more at home in a scientist’s or professor’s laboratory than in the quarters of a pirate captain in the middle of the ocean. John could not identify most of these, though he did pick out a set of glass tubes and beakers, a magnifying glass, tools for cutting and slicing (rather like what a surgeon might use), and a real human skull.

“Charming,” he nodded at the latter as Sherlock took a seat on the edge of his bed.

Sherlock followed his nod, spotted the skull, and chuckled. “A friend of mine, after a fashion.”

John chuckled, holding Sherlock’s gaze. The captain was the first to look away. He stood, seeming oddly nervous. “I’ll go see about getting a meal.”

John waiting, flipping through a book on sponges Sherlock had on the desk until the man returned.

He handed John a ration of salted beef and bread. “Winter is doing well. She was awake and asked if she could go back to work already.” He shook his head.

John grinned. “You have to admire her work ethic.”

“She need not be so eager. I would not send her away because she cannot do her duties at this time.”

John held his gaze. “Some people hate feeling useless.”

Sherlock did not blink. “Some people do not recognize that they are never useless.”

John turned away. He ignored Sherlock in favor of the food the man had brought, and Sherlock seemed content to let him. When he at last sat back from the bowl and tore into a small chunk of bread, though, he looked up to find the man’s gaze flickering quickly away from him to the window, which showed a clear sky lit up in dramatic shades of pink and orange and red.

“So why are you here?” The question was out before John had a chance to bite back the words.

Sherlock looked perplexed. “These are my quarters.”

“No, I…” John supposed he was stuck with this line of questioning now. He _was_ curious about all this, yes, but it still felt invasive. Even if Sherlock had really meant it when he said they needed to talk. “Why are you a pirate?”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked. Long moments passed before he answered. “It’s a long story, John. I thought it could at least wait until you’ve rested from your exertions.”

“Look,” John sat forward in his chair. “I’ve been curious about this for days. I don’t want to wait. Besides, I’m sitting. And it's just that… You’re a bloody puzzle, and it’s driving me mad to know more. I can tell you were born in England. That accent, the way you speak, it’s clear. So I want to know. Why did you leave to become a pirate?”

Sherlock regarded him, a thoughtful look in his eyes. The setting sun cast a gentle golden light on the pirate’s features. When he spoke, his voice was low and calm, though tentative.

“My father was a rich man,” he began. “He was well-liked by the nobility in England, though was not one of them. Because of this popularity, my childhood was easy. I was a bit spoiled, pampered, as any beloved child with an affluent family fortune is. My father’s occupation was in international trade. He dealt in spices primarily, but on occasion textiles as well. At one point, he owned ten ships. It was a steady business, and for a long while he enjoyed it.

“When I was eight years of age, however, he was approached by a new trading company. They sought to recruit him as an employee, but he enjoyed his own, small business. He did consent to give them advice for a  fee, so became a consultant of sorts.

“It did not take long for him to realize something was amiss. The company, the New Orient Trading Programme, had allowed him access to their records, and he observed certain… inconsistencies in the documents. Numbers not matching here, ship manifests not translating properly to the money earned there, and so on. Being an honourable man, my father asked the men he reported to. They assured him all was well, that the reports had been reviewed many times before, and not to worry. For a time, my father’s concerns were assuaged.

“Then, several months into this professional partnership between company and consultant, my father found an inconsistency he could not bring himself to ignore. The manifests of one particular ship, _Spider_ , did not align with the profit reports given to him. My father was intelligent and instinctive, so he dug deeper. His inquiries, unfortunately, proved fruitful.

“Investigations into the trading industry, in England, India, and Oriental nations, informed my father of the truth of the _Spider_ ’s cargo. It did not carry only more conventional goods, but massive stocks of opium as well. None of it, from what my father could tell, obtained through legal means. Because of the goods' dubious origins—according to one merchant in China—the Programme had murdered more than once to keep their secret.”

“Oh, God,” John breathed. Sherlock held his gaze and nodded.  
  
“My father always opposed the sale of opium,” he continued. “Despite its continued popularity, he had seen too many good men succumb to its influence, and always asserted its evils to his children.

“He was of course horrified to learn of the _Spider_ ’s involvement in that despicable business. He immediately went to the London offices of the New Orient Trading Programme and spoke to his contacts there. He insisted they cease their operations lest he expose their fraudulent reports. For of course, the financial reports were fabricated, recording only profits earned by spices, textiles, tea, and other legitimate items and disguising or outright omitting the opium sales. With so many English nobles invested in the Programme, they could not avoid scrutiny, thus these doctored reports. My father threatened to give the evidence to his friends. Not surprisingly, the men of the Programme did not take this threat lightly.”

“What did they do?” John asked. He had shifted forward while listening to Sherlock, their knees now inches from one another’s.

Sherlock sighed. “The Programme betrayed my father. They turned over the reports to his noble friends, claiming _he_ had been behind this all along. They had documents, falsified signatures, so much treacherous evidence, all of which ‘proved’ my father had been in league with them for years. They claimed he had gone behind their backs, secretly dealing with the ship captains, then altering the formal reports to hide his crimes.

“The nobles, who for so long had admired and respected my father, turned on him without question. I suspect money may have exchanged hands in some more extreme cases, but most believed the Programme without question. They are a persuasive group.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted, and his tone was sharp with bitterness. John stared at him in horror. “But,” he stammered. “The NOTP is not affiliated with England, is it? I was under the impression it is owned by a private group.”

“They are not an official English programme, no,” Sherlock shook his head. “Some Englishmen are involved, but its leadership and operations transcend borders and nations. Thus, it is untouchable. Or at least, not easily touched.”

John sat back, exhaling in one long, slow breath. To think of how conniving and, in fact, evil, this company must be, to disregard the damage they inflicted  without an ounce of grief…

“What happened to your father?” he asked, cautious. He sensed the answer could be nothing good.

“Just what you would suspect,” Sherlock’s head was lowered. “His reputation was more tattered than a sail after a storm. He spent a year in prison before a few sympathetic merchant friends lobbied to free him. But no one would work with him anymore. He had lost his livelihood, his social circle, his honour, all at once. It broke him. He was never the same. Only months after he returned home to us, he died.

“His loss… It destroyed my mother too. She died of grief, not long after… Then, it was just my brother Mycroft to care for me.”

“How old were you?” John whispered.

“Eleven.”

John’s heart ached. The mental image of a younger Sherlock, still curly-haired and bright-eyed, swam before him. He imagined the mischievous smile on the child’s face turning into tears, and his fists clenched in his lap.

“I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock let out a rather morose laugh. “You had nothing to do with it.”

“Still,” John said. “It is a terrible thing.”

Sherlock nodded. “Thank you,” he murmured after a beat.

John watched him, feeling intense sympathy and sadness. And for once, he did not question the feeling; he did not care this man was a pirate. He only saw, in that moment, the boy whose family had been torn apart.

“What happened then?” he pressed gently.

Sherlock sat up straighter, blinking hard twice. “My brother, seven years my senior, dedicated his life to fighting the NOTP. It has proven a more difficult undertaking than expected. They are secretive and powerful. He currently has a... _minor_ position in the British government.” Sherlock’s lip curled slightly. “He’s trying to hurt them from within, getting close to the men we suspect are involved in the company.”

“Who _are_ these men, the NOTP men who said those things about your father?”

“Our father never told us,” Sherlock shrugged. “We were young, too young to be involved in the situation. His protectiveness, though perhaps prudent at the time, has set quite the obstacle for our work.”

John inclined his head. “He sounds like he was a good father.”

Sherlock’s lips spread into a thin line. “He was.”

Before he could convince himself not to act, John leaned forward and placed his hand on Sherlock’s wrist where it rested on his knees. Sherlock’s face twitched with surprise, but then he smiled. A pained, small smile, but an improvement nevertheless on his melancholy expression. He turned his hand to grasp at John’s wrist in return.

“What about you?” John murmured. “That’s your brother’s work. What of yours? How did you end up here?”

“I realized Mycroft’s method was too complex. I loathed the idea of always posturing and bowing and scraping to powerful men in the hopes to find a scrap of information I could use. I wanted to truly _act_. So, I decided to do anything in my considerable power to sabotage the NOTP’s ships.

“During the years after my father’s death, while I still in school, I met Victor. He was an orphan, adopted by a friend of my father’s. But that guardian died soon after my father did, and we were brought together by similar griefs. We became close, and I told him my story. He was a passionate person, and declared we would get revenge.”

"Ah." John nodded. His stomach plummeted through the deck into the bitter sea below. "So you and him..."

"What? Oh, no," Sherlock shook his head, a movement that made his curls bounce. "No, not like that. There may have been some mutual attraction, at one point, but..." Sherlock smiled. His eyes had a fond but bittersweet look in them. "Victor was too in love with the sea, and I... well, I'm not so good at... relationships." His nose crinkled at the last word.

John swallowed and endeavoured not to feel too relieved. "Oh. Well. That's... that's good."

Sherlock's eyebrow lifted toward his hairline. "Is it?" He asked, tone a bit too knowing for comfort.

John blushed and grappled for something else to say. “So… so what happened to him?” he asked, lamely.

Sherlock’s smirked faded. “The moment Victor came of age, two years before I did, he got himself a position within the East India Company. They often work with the Programme, and he hoped to find information on them through the EIC.”

“Did he?” John asked, eager.

Sherlock shrugged. “As soon as I was able, I obtained a ship—not _all_ my father’s money had been taken—and took to the seas. I was eighteen years old, just out of formal schooling and finally free of my brother’s direct influence. All the while, Victor sent letters, which I would receive at port.” He swallowed. “They stopped coming two years ago. The last thing he told me was he that he had discovered where to find the NOTP leadership and would give more details in his next missive. Of course, he never did. So without warning, I had another reason to hate the NOTP.

“For seven years now I have sailed, targeting NOTP vessels. Now, I also need to find Victor in addition to uncovering irrefutable proof of their wrongdoing. So far, fulfilling both goals have proven… difficult.” He grimaced. “I fear it will be a lifetime of work.”

John frowned. A thought had occurred to him. “What about the _Silver Fox_? That was a Navy ship. If your only interest is the Programme’s ships, why attack us?”

Sherlock looked suddenly guilty. “My work does, on occasion, necessitate my sacking of Royal Navy ships, as they often take on NOTP cargo.”

“I didn’t know that! I saw none on board-”

“Nevertheless, they were there.”

John blinked. “Lestrade may not have known, he may have. But regardless, I doubt those men know the NOTP is evil,” he snapped, irritation flashing within him. But Sherlock squeezed his wrist.  
  
“I know,” he insisted in a soft but intense voice. “That is why I endeavour to simply rush in, seize the cargo, and escape. My crew are instructed to avoid killing when they have to. I would not knowingly harm an innocent.”

“But…” John bit his lip. “You _slammed_ into us. You attacked us. How can you know none of the wounds the _Silver Fox_ ’s men sustained were mortal? Look at me! This shoulder is still doing poorly!”

Sherlock’s forehead creased. “You and your men fought back,” he replied. “Fiercely. Most of the Navy ships I’ve engaged surrender once they are boarded. Battle is brief, usually. Your men… were more stubborn.”

John smiled, some of his anger fading in the wake of Sherlock’s quiet explanation. “That would be Greg Lestrade’s influence.”

“Your captain?”

John nodded. “Good man. He’s honourable. He would hate what the NOTP does.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, simply watched John, still clutching his hand. John stared back, marveling at this man, the numerous revelations he had just been given reverberating in his mind. Who had ever heard of an honourable pirate, a pirate with a valid reason to do what he did, a pirate with a moral code?

He had not even killed Sebastian, when such an act would not have been unexpected, or indeed even unheard of at sea.

“You really care,” John murmured. “Not just about your crew or about finding Victor. You care about stopping the NOTP. It truly… matters to you.”

Sherlock nodded. “The members of that company are criminals, of a higher order than mere pirates. They are embedded in the fabric of European society, masquerading at being respectable when really their reputation is built on violence, corruption, and death. I cannot abide the hypocrisy.”

He twisted away from John, lighting a lamp hanging nearer them; night had fallen by now, and the sky outside the ship was deep blue, shifting to black with each passing second. John took the moment to study Sherlock’s profile and to consider everything he had learned.

Not only could Sherlock not abide the hypocrisy of the NOTP’s men, he also clearly had a personal stake in the matter. His own family had been rent asunder by this Programme, which had faced no consequences for their actions. It was no wonder Sherlock kept everyone at a distance; he had to protect himself at every turn from facing that loss and heartbreak again. The people he let slip in through the cracks in his walls were few and far between. But there was no mistaking the most important realization: Sherlock Holmes _did_ feel, and felt deeply.

And perhaps John felt something in return.

Sherlock met his eyes once more, expression solemn and more open than John had ever seen it. The low light cast a soft effect on the pirate’s face, making him look somehow younger and kinder than he did at midday. The tension thickened the air around them, but for the first time that day, John’s hand was steady in the face of it.

“John,” Sherlock murmured in a questioning tone.

But John didn’t reply with words. He simply gave into the impulse that swelled within him. Because he was in the middle of the ocean, answerable to no one, and after everything John had heard this day, he could believe this with absolute certainty: Sherlock Holmes was the most extraordinary man John had ever met.

So he kissed him.

The initial contact was gentle, almost chaste. But after a tremulous second, Sherlock began to kiss back. His lips moved without much confidence against John’s, confirming the never-spoken suspicion that Sherlock had never really done this before. However, what he lacked in experience he made up for in eagerness, and after only moments of passionate kissing, John found he could not complain about a thing.

He slid his tongue across Sherlock’s lips, which parted for him without hesitation. Sherlock made a quiet noise in the back of his throat, and John felt his hands move of their own accord to pull him closer.

“John,” he gasped. His voice had somehow dropped an octave, vibrating right down to John’s very bones.

“Sherlock,” he whispered back.

They parted far enough to look into one another’s eyes, and in Sherlock’s, John found burning desire, a low flame slowly being stoked to an inferno with every instant, every touch.

“Stay with me tonight,” Sherlock said, hand pressing against John’s chest, over his pounding heart.

“Yes,” John breathed.

Sherlock’s arms tightened around him, pulling him closer, and John followed him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I were to give an alternate name to this chapter, it would be "swords, info-dumps and snogs." You know, the essentials.


	5. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm arrives.

The sun rose bright, sending streaks of golden and vermillion and orange in bursts across the sky. The sparkling waters of the ocean reflected the orb a thousand times over in miniature. The skies were clear of clouds, turning lighter shades of blue by the second. Aboard the _Sea Dragon_ , the crew stirred and began to move about the vessel, tending to early morning duties with sleepy eyes.

Meanwhile, John and Sherlock lay wide awake in the captain’s cabin together. They were too busy being wrapped up in each other to watch the sunrise or to move from their current location.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed as he pressed his nose against John’s neck. “John.”

John smiled. The pirate seemed fixated on saying his name, not that John would ever complain about such a thing. Sherlock could probably talk about anything, about tobacco or perfume or dead bodies, and John would still be riveted by that melodic voice.

Instead of replying aloud, John stroked a hand down Sherlock’s back, feeling smooth warm skin beneath his fingers. Sherlock arched into the touch with a soft groan. He lifted his head, meeting John’s gaze, oceanic eyes framed by sleep-mussed black curls.

John kissed him again; he couldn’t not. When they broke apart, Sherlock’s lips spread in a smile.

“So, Lieutenant,” he teased, amusement sparkling in his every syllable. “How do you feel, having awoken in the bed of a pirate?”

John chuckled. “Bloody brilliant, actually. And you? You’re with a Royal Navy sailor.”

“It’s tolerable,” Sherlock smirked.

John huffed, affecting an offended expression. He could not maintain it, however, and settled for snogging Sherlock breathless instead. Sherlock laughed into the kiss, and John almost could taste the happiness erupting like a flame between them. When they finally decided they needed to breathe, Sherlock pulled back and readjusted his position, laying his head on John’s chest and settling down. John watched fondly, fingers moving to his new lover’s hair unbidden. They were quiet for some time as they soaked in the warmth of each other’s bodies and revelled in these few hours of rare quiet they had spent together.

But then, thoughts began to creep into John’s mind and whisper. He had initiated things with Sherlock last night rather on impulse. Did Sherlock truly desire this? Or was he just bored, seeking a distraction?

“I can hear you thinking,” Sherlock muttered. His index finger was tracing shapes on John’s skin, just below his collarbone. “What about?”

John regarded him for several long moments, until Sherlock turned to look back at him. His gaze was not judging, only curious. John sighed and whispered out the most burning question in his mind.

“Why me? Why let me distract you from your work?”

Sherlock contemplated him for a moment, head tilted and eyes thoughtful. “You yearn for adventure,” he murmured. “You have such an ache, a drive to _live_ , to do more than just your duty. I could see it in you the moment I saw you. It's what drew you to the sea, and I believe what initially attracted you to me. You saw danger, and something different than your life as a Navy man.”

John stroked a hand across Sherlock's skin again. “That doesn't explain why you've taken me onto your ship.”

“And into my bed?” Sherlock's eyebrow quirked up in amusement. “Because... as different as we are, we also yearn for the same things. Freedom, excitement, to experience new things, and to right wrongs. I suspect that deep down, perhaps unacknowledged even by yourself, you have the heart of a pirate. As for allowing you to distract me… I cannot bring myself to regret this, here.”

His cheeks had grown progressively pink as he had spoken, and as he finished he ducked his head. John was unsurprised; Sherlock was by no means an emotionally expressive person. John had been shocked enough by the soft caresses they had been exchanging since awakening. A speech like this, barely solicited as it was, was even more astonishing.

He shifted and recaptured Sherlock's lips with his own. Sherlock moved to reciprocate immediately, fingers gripping John's body wherever they could reach.

And God, John delighted in this. Sherlock kissed with the single-minded focus with which he approached everything. But to have such attentions fixed solely on John, on giving John pleasure, was intoxicating. Sherlock may be somewhat new at this, but he had proved himself over the course of the previous night to be a swift and thorough learner.

John pressed closer, arms moving around the pirate’s lithe body. Sherlock sighed with contentment and allowed John to roll him over. The changed angle shifted the tone of their embrace; Sherlock melted into the bed as John shifted atop him, kissing his neck.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped. His arms wrapped around the back of John’s neck, so he could not retreat even if he had desired to.

As John slid his hands underneath Sherlock in an attempt to pull him flush against him, however, a twinge of white-hot pain jolted up his arm. He gasped and jerked back, clutching at his shoulder. Sherlock stiffened.

“Are you alright?” he asked. He propped himself up on one elbow and reached for John with his other hand. “Did I hurt you?”

John shook his head, sighing. “It wasn’t you.” He eased off Sherlock and sat back on his heels. Sherlock tucked his legs under himself and shifted close again.

Together, they peeled away the bandages. As they fell away and revealed John’s shoulder, Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath.

The skin was puffy and red just around the actual wound, but around the edges was a strange yellowish shade. John frowned. Had even ceasing to apply the poultice not worked?

“John,” Sherlock whispered. His forehead creased, his mind apparently working hard and quick. His fingers lifted as if to touch the mark, but stopped so close John could feel the air move by the wound. He held John’s gaze. “I fear this needs more treatment than we can provide.”

“Well, what are we going to do about it?” John tried for a joking tone, but it fell flat. “We are in the middle of the ocean. Speaking of which, we should probably venture out onto the deck. Cannot have your crew thinking you’re neglecting your duties.”

Sherlock just watched him as he eased away and began to dress. He felt the pirate’s gaze on him as he tugged his shirt—borrowed from another sailor aboard—over the wound, and hoped the tension and worry he felt was not showing in his posture.

What could they do?

 

* * *

 

Two days passed in a perplexing whirl of contrasting emotions.

On one hand, there were stolen kisses, private giggles, and soft words whenever he and Sherlock could steal a moment. There were smiles meant just for one another, toiling side by side, and the crew’s affectionate jokes about the two of them while they were on deck. Everyone seemed to know of their altered relationship, and no one seemed surprised. John ate with the crew, talking most with Irene and Ekene and Wiggins, and found himself content. He fulfilled Winter’s and Sebastian’s duties with Ekene, and enjoyed them more than he had expected. Overall, things aboard the _Sea Dragon_ , which had at last caught a favourable wind, were happy. John could almost see himself making a home here, thanks in no small part to the pirate who now occupied his bed and thoughts.

On the other hand, there was worry, pain in his shoulder, and concern for the future. There were dozens of times a day when John would suppress a wince as his sensitive, ever-worsening shoulder protested his motions. John feared, more and more, about what would happen to it. Nothing Sherlock or Wiggins did for it seemed to help. More than that, it had been eleven days since the battle and the fog. Eleven days since John had seen his crew aboard the _Silver Fox_ , and he had no inkling of what had happened to them. Had they made port? Had anyone been badly injured, or worse? And what of Sherlock’s work? Surely someday the NOTP would catch up to them, and what then?

So much had changed in such a short time. Had someone told him just a fortnight ago that he would feel himself comfortable upon a pirate ship, even defensive of the captain’s motivations and fond of the crew, John would have hit them.

And yet. Here he was.

He strode down the passageway from the galley to the stairs that led to the deck. Voices captured his attention, especially that distinctive rumble belonging to his very own lover. John slowed, curious. Two men were standing at the bottom of the steps, so John stayed just out of sight to listen. He had twigged to something serious in Sherlock’s tone and wanted to know what they were discussing.

“And you are certain? There is nothing more you know to do?” Sherlock was asking, low and intense.

“Yeah,” Wiggins’ voice replied. “I’m sorry, Cap, there ain’t. I don’t got the training.”

“I know.” Sherlock sounded resigned, defeated. “You’ve done what you can. I thank you.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Sherlock blew out a slow breath. “Whatever it takes. I would rather have him leave me and live than have him stay just to die.”

Footsteps thumped up the steps then, and John peered around the corner to see Wiggins leaning against the wall for a moment, head bowed. After a moment, he followed his captain. John waited a few more seconds, then did the same.

He found Sherlock at the helm, having just relieved Irene. She passed John in the opposite direction, pausing to touch his good shoulder.  
“Talk to him,” she murmured. “He’s in a mood.”

“You think I can fix that?” John laughed, half-humourlessly.

“If anyone could…” she shrugged. Then, squeezing his shoulder, she departed. John approached Sherlock.

“You need a doctor,” the captain said without preamble the moment John was within earshot. He had barely taken a glance at John’s shoulder, but John could not deny the accuracy of his statement. Still, he was irritated that Sherlock was making decisions without consulting John first. Especially when those decisions were _about John_.

“And how do you propose I see one? Unless you’ve got a surgeon hidden below-decks I’m unaware of.” He stood next to the man, arms just brushing, the warmth making him shudder.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “We will be making port in approximately a week,” he said suddenly. “I think you need to get off there.”

“Sherlock-”

“It is not that I do not want you here,” Sherlock’s hand flapped. “But your wound is… not good. I have seen that before. A man, years ago, his wound looked like that. He didn’t… well.” he bit his lip. “You have to leave. No arguments. I am… concerned for you.”

John almost chuckled, even as his insides twisted. “Some pirate you are.”

Sherlock smirked, but the light feeling between them lasted mere seconds as his smile turned into a frown, intense and serious. The amusement faded too from John’s heart as the reality set in. If even Sherlock was worried, had seen this kill someone before, it must be serious.

Cutting off what he didn’t want to be entertaining at the moment, he shifted and stared at Sherlock.

“Where are we making port?” he asked.

“Portugal. Lisbon, to be precise. I wish to make contact with someone I believe has information that could be of some use to me.”

John nodded. “Lisbon.” It was far from home, but there would be medical care. “What sort of information? News of Victor?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps. But we need to focus on getting you off this ship safely.”

“I don’t want to go,” John insisted. “Can’t you get a doctor at Lisbon, keep us both on the ship?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “John, that is infected. You’ve clearly been feeling poorly all day. You need proper care, extended care. Possibly a hospital. And as it is, you are a liability on this ship. Besides, I know you have been worried for your crew. I am certain Captain Lestrade would be relieved to hear of your survival. You have obligations to them, to your life.”

“Sherlock…”

“It’s fine, John. Your company has been appreciated these last days, but face it. You do not belong here. You are a member of the Royal Navy and have no business consorting with pirates. Besides, a relationship is perhaps not the best course for me to chart. As a captain. I need to focus on my work.” Sherlock was refusing to look at him, and John thought he knew why; he was attempting to soften the blow this was dealing both of them by saying these things.

Things John believed with increasing certainty to be untrue.

But at the same time, he saw the wisdom of Sherlock’s words. Logical, reasonable words. He needed to tell the Navy he was alive, and perhaps in doing so he could even protect Sherlock and this crew from being punished for piracy if they were ever captured.

“Fine,” he sighed, shoulders sagging. “I just… Sherlock, you and I…”

“Cannot be a priority right now,” Sherlock cut him off. “Your survival is most important. Sentiment, you must understand, is a liability. A defect found in the losing side.”

He still would not look at John, eyes fixed on the horizon and lips tight. John stepped close, hand covering Sherlock’s where it rested on the wheel. Words fought for dominance on his lips, words like _what I feel for you cannot be a defect_ and _you and I can figure something out_ and _you are beautiful_. None won, all swallowed back by uncertainty and the knowledge that Sherlock would not welcome such words.

So John stood next to him for a long while, neither speaking. At last, after the moon had tracked high in the sky and a cool wind stung his skin, John retired. Before he left, though, he reached up and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek.

“Goodnight.”

He hated the thought that soon, he would have to say “goodbye.”

 

* * *

 

John lay awake in the captain’s cabin for what felt like hours after coming below-decks, thinking of Sherlock, and why the idea of parting with him hurt so keenly. He should want to embrace with open arms to his old, dependable, crime-free life. His old self, of a fortnight and an age ago, would have wanted that.

And yet. Sherlock’s way of viewing the world, all in shades of grey, his fierce seizure of independence, his bold opinions, called to him as nothing had before. His drive for justice seemed to match that of John’s, and now all John wanted was to stay to help see Sherlock’s mission through.

 _I fear it will be a lifetime of work_ , Sherlock had said of his vendetta against the NOTP. But John suspected he was willing to give just that to Sherlock—a lifetime.

John sighed and rolled over, and his shoulder gave a sharp twinge in response. He had spent years of his life yearning for travel. Then, after joining the Navy, he had watched the world go by over the prow of a ship and still not been satisfied. Yet in all that time he had never imagined that he would find meaning and a kindred spirit in a pirate.

His introspection was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Sherlock’s silhouette appeared, hesitating as he spotted John in his bed.

“Sorry,” John heard himself whisper. “I couldn’t stay away.”

Sherlock’s embrace was warm. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

As John drifted off, he wondered. What was he going to do when he had to tell this pirate farewell?

 

* * *

 

The next days swept by in a rush, so quickly that John felt Sherlock slipping away with each passing breath, even as he held onto him tighter. Each kiss, each touch, seemed all the sweeter to John, though Sherlock was preoccupied and quiet most of the time. The pirate captain was focused on getting the ship into Lisbon safely, and seeing to it that John’s wound did not worsen.

However, there was only so much he could do.

When they were an estimated two days from Lisbon, the dawning light found John waking with shivers wracking his body. He rolled over, groaning. Sherlock’s head popped up from the pillow next to him.

“John?” he asked, a hand coming to rest on his hip. Instants later, he pulled it back to replace it on John’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

He sat up and lit the lantern next to the bed. John flinched at the sudden bright light.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock murmured. His fingers tugged at John’s bandage. “I need to see your wound.”

John lay there without protest, feeling utterly miserable. His throat felt dry, his arms ached, and his entire body felt too cool. How could he be feverish if he felt this cold? It made no sense; Sherlock must be wrong.

A sudden intake of breath made him open his eyes and squint at his lover. “Oh, my darling,” Sherlock whispered.

“What?” John asked, shifting to see the injury.

Oh.

The swelling had increased, as had the yellowish area. Worse, the yellow parts had taken on a green tint as well. When Sherlock brushed his thumb along the edge, John winced and pulled back. The inflamed area was sensitive and almost itchy with pain.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said, concern etched on his face.

“It hurts,” John muttered—probably a stupid statement, but Sherlock did not react. Instead, he had sat up and swung his legs out of bed. “Where are you going?”

“I’m getting Wiggins,” he replied.

He returned with the boy minutes later, carrying a bowl of water and fresh bandages. Wiggins switched the cloths and wiped the wound as best he could while Sherlock daubed John’s forehead with a cool, damp rag. John let himself drift, not awake but not asleep. After a while, he heard Wiggins speak.

“I dunno, Cap. He looks bad. Needs a proper doctor.”

“We’re still at least two days from port.”

“I know. But sir… ’m not sure he’s gonna make it, unless this fever breaks.”

Sherlock was quiet a moment. Dimly, John could feel his hand on his own. “He will. He’s a fighter.”

“Yes sir. Let me know if he gets worse, yeah?”

Footsteps sounded like thunderclaps to John, but they soon retreated and left calming silence in their place. Then, soft lips brushed against his fringe.

“John, please hold on.”

Sherlock’s voice continued speaking, but sounded muffled as though with cotton as John slipped away into a fitful slumber.

 

* * *

 

John came awake to a bright flash of white light. He blinked, disoriented, and sat up. His delirium had faded, but he still felt confused and weak. Was the ship really rocking so much, or was that him?

The lantern above him swayed so violently then that it almost collided with his temple. Not just him, then.

His legs protesting, he forced himself upright. He seized his coat off the back of a chair as he staggered across the room.

Up on deck, the crew of the _Sea Dragon_ darted in every direction at once. Rain came down in a steady shower, soaking him in moments. Lightning crackled overhead, thunder crashed. Pirates tugged hard on lines, strapped down supplies or dragged them below. All seemed chaos to John.

Irene dashed by. She called to him as she passed. “What are you doing up here, Watson? Get back below!” He just watched her go, unable to muster a reply.

Ekene passed next, though he stopped and grasped John’s arm to bring him around so they faced each other.  

His fingers flew as he frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked. “What’s going on?”

“Storm,” Ekene replied. “You are ill. Go back, John.”

He raced away. John ignored his order, feeling more awake and lucid in this rain than he had all day. Blinking water out of his eyes, he strode across the deck.

Sherlock stood at the helm, Winter next to him. Both were fighting to keep the ship moving in the right direction even as it rocked and swayed in the wind and crashing waves. Every few moments, as the vessel reached the nadir of a wave, ocean water swept over the deck. Thrice, John nearly lost his footing trying to get to Sherlock and Winter, but managed to steady himself each time.

“John!” Winter shouted when she spotted him. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at? Get back below-decks!”

“ _You_ shouldn’t be here either!” he gestured to her side, which was surely still bandaged beneath her clothes.

“I’m better off than you, you idiot!” she yelled back. It seemed Sherlock had informed the entire crew of John’s illness.

John ignored her and made his way to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s grip on the wheel made his knuckles stand out white against the dark wood. His hair was plastered to his face, and his teeth were set in a snarl as he fought against all of nature to maintain control of his ship. Surrounded by thunder and lightning, stance tall and intent, he looked so alive.

“John,” he growled, barely audible over the storm.

“What can I do to help?”

Sherlock glanced at him, then went back to work. “Get out of the way.”

“No,” John insisted. “You need help.”

“You’re unwell! You are not thinking sensibly!”

“Where are we going?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Ekene has found us a cluster of coves to take shelter in, off the coast of Africa. We’re nearly there. If we can just make it-”

“Let me help you-”

“Don’t be stupid, John!”

John opened his mouth to retort, but Irene’s scream cut him off.

“Sherlock! There’s a ship ahead!”

“What?” he frowned, then passed the wheel to Winter. After a moment’s hesitation, he waved for John to help her keep it steady.

Sherlock approached Irene and squinted into the storm-rent air. John followed his gaze, and after a second and a fortuitous lightning strike, he discerned the outline of another ship. It swayed and oscillated a few cable lengths away, tossed like a cork on the ocean’s surface.

“Dutch merchants,” Irene yelled. “Looks to have had the same idea we did.”

“They are coming from the wrong direction.” Water droplets flew in all directions as Sherlock shook his head. “They needed to come from farther south. Ekene said there are reefs-”

As if the universe had heard Sherlock speak, a great creak rent the air. The Dutch ship was near enough that John heard her crew cry out as one. She had smashed into a reef, a fatal blow from the looks of it. Seconds later, the mainmast splintered and tumbled into the waves. The ship pitched to the side, then began unmistakably to sink.

“Ekene!” Sherlock bellowed. “Someone find me Ekene!”

He dashed back to the wheel and shouldered Winter and John out of the way so he could seize it. Winter stumbled and fell, and John rushed to help her.

“Sherlock!” John called as he tugged her to her feet. “What-”

But Ekene had arrived, a compass in his hand. He leaned over the railing to watch the sea in front of them, flicking between the water and the compass. His fingers jabbed and stabbed the air with urgency, expression intense and determined. Sherlock turned and twitched the wheel in response to Ekene’s instructions, and John realized the man was guiding his captain around the reefs.

But they were passing the Dutch ship. John could still hear them yelling, and as he turned his head, he saw many faces staring in his direction. Cries for help met his ears, louder even than the thunder.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, seizing Sherlock’s arm. “Help them! Drop the longboats!”

“Are you mad?” Sherlock threw his hand off. “We’re nearly there!”

“Those men will drown!”

“So will we if we don’t get past-”

“Sherlock!” John grabbed the wheel this time. Rain was coming down harder than ever, making it difficult to see even the other end of the _Sea Dragon_ with any clarity, let alone the Dutch ship. He swiped an arm across his face in a futile attempt to improve his sight. “You cannot leave them to die!”

"They aren't my responsibility!” Sherlock spat. “They aren't my problem!"

John felt horrified. Blood rushing in his ears almost blocked out even the sounds of rain and wind. “You would just let them all drown? That ship is going down, you know it!”

“I will _not_ risk my crew,” Sherlock hissed, shoving John aside again and reclaiming the wheel for his own.

John was aghast. This man who had tended to his illness with such gentleness mere hours ago, who had held him in his arms and spoken tender words, condemning an entire crew to death?

“You can’t do this,” he tried one last time, heart sinking.

Sherlock’s lip curled in a horrible expression, half-sneer, half-snarl. “I think you’ll find I can.”

He jerked the wheel so sharply that John lurched to the side as the ship tilted. Catching himself, he glared at Sherlock. But the pirate captain ignored him, staring ahead at Ekene. John’s gaze shifted, and saw the man give one final signal, a look of utter relief on his face.

“Yes!” Sherlock said. “Irene!”

“Got it!” She jerked a line, and the sails swelled with wind. The _Sea Dragon_ soared forward, no longer at risk of running afoul of the reefs. Without warning John spotted land ahead. The coves.

As the crew cheered, John spun about. The Dutch ship had tipped, the prow high in the sky, silhouetted by lighting and the gray sky behind. It was doomed.

Sherlock had doomed it.

John turned back to the pirate captain, fists clenched at his sides. Fury pounded white hot, through him. “You really are what you seemed to be when I met you.”

Sherlock whirled, looming over him. Damn his height. The triumph and exhilaration sparkling in his eyes soon morphed into a quiet anger. “And what am I?”

John did not back down. “Nothing but a heartless pirate.”

He stormed off, leaving Sherlock on the deck, eyes wide.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, John lay in a hammock in the crew’s quarters. He could not abide the idea of sleeping in Sherlock’s bed again. Not after the man had left a crew of innocent men for dead.

He stretched, crossing his arms, then groaned softly. His fever may have broken, but he had still spent an entire day unwell, and his shoulder was no better. The storm had passed an hour ago, but the wind had not yet ceased, and rain still soaked the ship in a steady drizzle. In the distance, thunder growled. The _Sea Dragon_ , anchored in a cove to wait until fairer weather, rocked and creaked. This night, John was sure, would pass slowly.

“John?”

He jumped. “Sherlock!”

Sitting up, he found the captain next to him, dripping wet. “You scared the hell out of me,” he hissed. Several other crew members were down here, and he glanced around to see if he had awoken them with his cry. If he had, they gave no indication.

Sherlock lifted a brow. “What are you doing in here?”

John scoffed. “You did not honestly believe I’d join you tonight? After what you did?”

Sherlock looked stricken. “John-”

“Where are we? How far from Lisbon?” John did not want to hear any defense Sherlock had spun.

The pirate’s jaw worked as he fought some internal battle with himself, then he sighed. “Just a day. The storm actually blew us to a favourable location. According to Ekene, and the stars confirm his estimation, we ended up farther northeast along the coast than I suspected. If it were a clear enough day, I think we could almost see Gibraltar.”

“So a day to Lisbon,” John nodded. “Good.”

“John-”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” He rolled over and closed his eyes. A beat, then Sherlock’s footsteps retreated in defeat.

John could not wait to get off this ship.

 

* * *

 

The next afternoon, the _Sea Dragon_ arrived in the port of Lisbon. John stood with Irene and Winter at the railing as they entered the realm of men once more. Returning to port was always an interesting sensation for John. Such a mass of humanity, of noise and solidness and crowds and structure, pressing in on him from all directions. The large cities where most ships made port loomed, daunting, over the ocean’s edge. Most times, John was loath to disembark.

This time, however… John gripped his throbbing shoulder and wiped his brow. The day was warm, but John felt somewhat chilled, still unwell. And the sense memory of Sherlock shoving him out of the way to seize the wheel and leave an entire ship of men behind crawled all over John. He had to get away.

The _Sea Dragon_ laid anchor, and most of the crew filed off, faces showing their relief at arriving in one piece Several shook John’s hand or nodded to him; most, it seemed, were aware he would not be returning. Rumours spread quickly on a small ship.

Ekene, when he passed John, stopped and embraced him. In spite of himself, John hugged him back.

“You will be missed,” the man said moments before he stepped away. John watched him go, wondering at the fact that Ekene would be missed in return.

John glanced around. A few deck hands had remained behind, and-

Oh.

Sherlock emerged from below-decks, leading a still-trussed Sebastian. John had nearly forgotten about him. The man was no longer gagged, but did not speak, even when he saw Winter. He simply glared and allowed Sherlock to push him toward the gangplank.

As they passed John, he realized why the man was so taciturn; Sherlock had a small dagger in his hand, not pressed against Sebastian but very obviously present in the man’s line of sight.

Winter watched him go with stoicism. After he and Sherlock disappeared in the crowds on the docks, she spat.

“Good riddance,” she said. Her arm was wrapped, protective, across her torso, hand over the place Sebastian had stabbed her.

“Come on,” Irene said, squeezing her shoulder. “It’s over now.”  
“What will happen to him?” John asked.

Irene shrugged. “Sherlock will leave him here. Sebastian understands what will happen if he tries to retaliate. So he’ll probably stay here until he can find other work. But Sherlock will spread the word about him to ships we know. Finding work will not be easy for that piece of filth.” She smiled, grimly satisfied.

John pursed his lips. “Good. It is no more than he deserves.”

“Oh, but I wish you weren’t leaving, Watson,” Winter said as she turned to him. “I’ll miss you!”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. He smiled and shook her hand. “And I you. Stay out of trouble now.”

She laughed. “Why would I do that?”

Irene surveyed John, her sharp eyes as keen as ever. “Take care of yourself. We’re off, but Sherlock said he’ll come back to show you the way to the doctor.”

John nodded. “Thank you, Irene. And thank Wiggins for me, would you? What happened isn’t his fault, I hope he knows that.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.” She chuckled. “He’s probably already off chasing the ladies, or the drinks.”

Shaking her head, she headed off the ship with Winter. John waited, alone now but for the hands left behind to guard the ship.

Almost immediately, his anger from the previous night flooded back in force. Flashes of memory appeared before him—lightning lancing across the sky, Sherlock standing strong and beautiful and terrible at the helm, the Dutch ship sinking, sinking, sinking…

He could not understand it. Sherlock had had the chance and worse, the ability to save those men. The _Sea Dragon_ carried longboats, enough to hold most of the crew. Enough, in fact, to hold most of the Dutchmen, judging from the size of that ship. But instead, Sherlock had kept the longboats back—why? Had he been unwilling to risk the lives of his own crew, perhaps, in a treacherous attempt to rescue strangers? Did he harbour ill will toward them for some reason? Or worse, did he truly not care what happened to them?

Yet that was not the Sherlock he knew. Sherlock Holmes was a man with an extraordinary mind, an ability to see and deduce things about people beyond John’s wildest imaginings, and a fierce determination to correct injustices in the world. He often put on a cold, unfeeling facade, but it was just that: a facade. After all, John had watched him dash to the aid of a wounded crew member. John had watched him treat her with compassion, even affection, tending to her wound and stroking her hair through the pain. John had watched him mete out punishment but still stop short of inflicting physical violence. And John had heard his story, of loss and pain, and seen the earnest hidden emotion behind his words.

John had seen these instances of Sherlock’s belief in justice, of Sherlock’s emotion, and yet. He had still left those men to die. Why? How could he? Sherlock’s choice the previous night defied everything John knew to be true about him. More than that, Sherlock’s choice defied everything John himself believed to be moral, what men should do in dire situations.

So how could John ever forgive him?

He stared out at the city of Lisbon, fists clenched on the railing in front of him. Perhaps he was wrong in his estimation of Sherlock’s character. He had only been on the _Sea Dragon_ for just over a fortnight, only gotten to know Sherlock the last few days. It would be impossible to know someone entirely in such a short time. Perhaps he had misunderstood, or only had a portion of the story.

Perhaps he had never really known Sherlock at all.

“John?”

He turned. Sherlock was returning, boots thumping up the gangplank. His shirt was a deep purple today, the very shirt he had worn the first day John had properly spoken to him. In the pirate’s arms was a bag. Upon reaching the ship’s deck, Sherlock tossed it at John, who scooped it up and peered inside. Provisions, just a bit of food, his clothing he had been wearing that last night on the _Silver Fox_ , fresh bandages, and the sword he had trained with.

John met Sherlock’s gaze. “Thank you. You did not have to do this.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “My pleasure.” He hesitated, as if he were wondering whether to speak further. Then, he sighed. “Come.”

Sherlock gestured him forward, and John strode down the plank. For the first time in many weeks, he set foot on solid ground. He stopped, spun about, and looked at Sherlock.

“Where… where do I go? I’ve never been to Lisbon,” was all John managed to say, throat suddenly tight.

Sherlock’s lips pressed together in a thin line, and he was stepped down to stand next to John. He thrust a map into his hands and pointed to a mark. “The surgeon lives a few streets away from the docks, that way.” A long finger pointed toward a dirty street, filled with merchants. “Not the best part of town, especially at night, but I am assured this is the most knowledgeable doctor in the city. She is expecting you, and you will be well cared for. I’m sorry I cannot accompany you, but I fear I must get back to the crew…” He trailed off.

John nodded and racked his brains for something to say. After an entire night of rehearsing potential conversations, possible farewell gestures and words, his mind had seemed to decide to wipe itself of every single one.

And the memory of the Dutch ship, its mast the only thing out of the water before even that sunk below the roiling waves, burned in his mind’s eye.

“Well,” he said, feeling stupid.

“Yes.” Sherlock glanced at his own feet and shifted his weight.

“Thank you,” John added. “For saving my life. You didn’t have to.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It was no trouble, Lieutenant Watson.”

The abrupt regression to formality shocked John as much as if Sherlock had hit him across the face. He pressed his free hand into his thigh and nodded. “Right. Well. Goodbye then.”

He turned, but had only managed a half dozen steps before Sherlock’s hand was grasping his good arm and spinning him back around. Once again, those intense eyes found John’s.

“John,” he murmured, then froze and swallowed. “Take care.”

“You too,” John replied, some of the icy hurt dissipating at the sight of evidence that despite their last conversation, Sherlock might hate this just as much as he did.

Sherlock nodded, and then—with an air of someone acting before he could think better of it—pressed his lips to John’s forehead. The contact lasted mere instants, over almost before John registered it was happening. But when the pirate pulled away the sensation lingered, warm and full of regret.

“Goodbye.” That captivating baritone uttered the word so softly that John almost could believe he had imagined it.

He spun on his heel and walked away from Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

The next night, John stood at the window in the kindly surgeon’s guest room and gazed across the rooftops toward the port. There, the _Sea Dragon_ let its dark grey sails unfurl in the cold wind. It caught a favorable breeze as it angled toward the open sea and its next journey.

John stood frozen in place, cradling his newly cleaned shoulder, and stared until the ship had departed. He did not move, fixated on the horizon until all evidence of the vessel—even its foamy wake—had vanished.

Sherlock was gone.


	6. Two Captains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to adjust back to life with the Royal Navy.

_Being on the land cannot compare to the sea_ , John thought to himself. It had been too long since he had been out there, in the endless expanse of blue. Four months, in fact, of being back on land, attending various functions in stuffy London parlors. Four months of pandering to rich nobles, fending off simpering rich women looking to make a marriage to a handsome, famous Navy man for themselves or their children (or on one memorable occasion, their mother). Four months on hard, stable land, feeling suffocated.

If only he had been able to avoid convalescence of such a duration, then things might have felt less miserable. But he had thus far been unable to return to work on a Royal Navy ship due to his injured shoulder. Instead, he was forced to stay here, on solid ground. John had hated every minute of it.

"There he is!"

John’s melancholy thoughts were turned to dust as he turned and grinned. Captain Lestrade was rushing toward him. John met him halfway and they embraced.

He retreated to arms length and examined his friend. Skin more tanned, stride a bit more weary, but all in all he looked the part of an exhilarated adventurer.

"John Watson," he beamed. "When I got your letter, I... I couldn't believe-"

But other men's cries interrupted him, and John was engulfed in hugs by the crew of the _Silver Fox_. He laughed and hugged them back, barely taking in who it was with their arms around him.

Finally, Greg broke up the mass of limbs with a laugh-drenched cry. "Alright, alright, lay off him. Come on, let's find something real to eat for once!"

The crew, with John in tow, ended up in an inn, consuming probably the entire stock of food in the kitchen.

Once they had been sated, and were nursing their drinks in a relaxed after-meal stupor, Greg turned to John.

"So."

John gulped down a hasty drink. "So?" He knew what was coming.

"What happened?" Greg pressed, leaning forward. The men around looked over, all listening. "On the pirate ship."

John suppressed a sigh. This was just like one of the admiralty’s parties. There, there were always so many questions about his time on the _Sea Dragon_ , so many gasps and exclamations in response to his grudging answers, and yet no one truly listened. No one heard him and saw through him to what he really thought of the pirates.

 _Good_ , he thought. Perhaps it was better that no one else knew about Sherlock. Not only would it be dangerous for the captain, but a part of John wanted to keep Sherlock to himself. A secret, carried in John’s heart, unseen by everyone else. Because no one in England—no one in the world, really—could possibly appreciate the way Sherlock Holmes had made John feel. He had brought John alive again in a way no other person ever had, had shown him wonders in the way he saw the world, from the way he reacted to life. No, no one could understand. And no one else should.

Distance and time had lessened the red-hot anger John had felt about the Dutch ship. He still loathed that men had died, and Sherlock had not helped, but now John wondered if he had been wrong…

More than anything, John wished he could go to Sherlock and apologize for the last words he had spoken to him. For the hurt he had likely caused.

“John?” Lestrade’s voice came to him, as if from a great distance. “You alright?”

"Oh," John shifted. Memories of Sherlock still flooded through him. _The warmth of his smile, the sparkle in his eyes, the feel of his lips on John's..._ "Yes, I’m fine. The pirates were… different than I expected."

"How so?" Greg's forehead creased. "Did they mistreat you?"

"... No," John said. "Not exactly..."

_Laughing with Winter and Irene, crossing swords with Sherlock..._

"They kept me below-decks," he lied. "I hardly had any contact with them."

"Aww, come on John, do you have not a single story to tell?" Greg nudged him. "You didn't even get to converse with the pirates?"

_Learning signs with Ekene, discussing wound treatment with Wiggins, whispering soft words in bed with Sherlock..._

"Not much," he said. "And what they did say wasn't of any interest."

"So if they kept you so isolated, how did you get away?" Greg looked, despite John's vague replies, avidly interested. "They couldn't have let you go."

At last, a question John had prepared for. "I knew my wound was in a bad state. So I waited until the ship got into port and they all left. By then I had worked out of my bonds, and I slipped off the ship."

"They had you tied up?" Greg exclaimed. "But you were injured! Bloody pirates." He scowled and shook his head, lifting his drink back to his lips.

John shrugged, a bit at a loss for words. When Lestrade looked expectant, though, he sighed inwardly and explained what had happened once he had gotten to a doctor and recovered. He told them how he had spent several weeks in the surgeon’s care in Lisbon, too injured and exhausted to leave. He told them how another fortnight had passed before he set eyes on England again, having taken passage in a dirty barge to return to his mother country. He told them how after that his time had been occupied by receiving a warm—almost overly warm—welcome home from the officials of the Navy, paid time off so he could finish healing, and party after dull party with his superiors, who only wanted to show him off to their benefactors and the nobility as a pirate survivor.

He did not, however, tell of the hardships he had been facing. He did not tell of the pain in his shoulder or the tremor in his hand, or that he feared the latter was now perhaps permanent. He did not tell of waking up most nights in cold sweats, seeing visions of storms and lighting and sinking ships flashing before his eyes. He did not tell of falling back asleep only to dream of Sherlock’s warm embrace…

“So what about you?” he asked, desperate to finally shift the subject off of himself. “Why did it take you so long to return?” Indeed, the _Silver Fox_ was at least a month late returning to London.

Lestrade sighed and took a long pull, then set the mug down with a thump. “We left India a while back, and everything seemed fine. But then we had a bad encounter with a bolt of lightning,” he rolled his eyes in typical casual Greg fashion, always downplaying his own sufferings. “So we had to make an unscheduled stop at the Cape to make repairs. Then we ended up staying a bit longer,” he added, a touch sheepish now, and John smirked. It seemed a bit of revelry—probably for making it that far alive—had been in order. Lestrade had a weakness for indulging his crew’s indulgences.

“Well,” John smiled. “I’m glad you’re finally back.”

“You too,” Greg clasped his arm. “We had given you up for dead, mate.” Guilt was intense and bright in his eyes.

“It’s alright. You had reason to.” John looked away, once again imagining the _Sea Dragon_ and wondering where she was now. Wondering if, perhaps, Sherlock was thinking of him in this moment. Fanciful as the thought was, it still pleased John. Both he and Lestrade were silent for a moment, lost in their own—rather divergent—thoughts of pirates.

“So,” Greg finally said after finishing off his drink. “Any thoughts of going back out there?”

“What?” John coughed into his own mug. “Where?”

“To sea,” he grinned as he thumped John on the back. “We’ll be back out there soon enough. And we’d love to have you back.”

John swallowed hard.

“If only we hadn’t lost you in the first place, Lieutenant!” a loud sailor called over, having apparently listened to the conversation.

“Yeah!” another joined in. “If we’d known you was alive, sir, we’d have chased down them scoundrels!”

“‘Til our sails were in tatters,” the first man agreed.

“And then we’d have sunk them,” the other laughed. The men gathered yelled and thumped their fists on the tables in agreement.

John felt his hand twitch on the table and quickly moved it to his lap. The memory of the Dutch ship’s descent into the deep flashed before his eyes. He hated the idea of the _Sea Dragon_ finding the same fate, though he could imagine the vindictive laughter of the men he sat with now as they watched the ship sink.

He made his excuses as soon as he was able, allowing for embraces and handshakes and a solemn promise extracted by Lestrade to meet with them again. Then, he departed, heart pounding. He leaned against the wall of the inn and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. However, even that did not erase the _Sea Dragon_ , the Dutch ship, or Sherlock from his mind.

And his hand still twitched.

 

* * *

 

 _Three months later_ …

He stood atop a low hill overlooking a shore and the ocean beyond. From this vantage point he could see far away toward the horizon, where the first golden-pink streaks of the sunrise were appearing. Few clouds marred the colorful scene. The waves of the incoming tide swept toward the shore in forlorn, rhythmic crashes.

The entire vista was absurdly picturesque, but something about standing on solid ground rather than a ship embittered such a view. How he longed to be back out there…

“Sir!” a voice called, and John blinked himself out of his reverie to see the young boy who’d been sent to summon him that morning watching him from halfway down the hill. A small crowd was gathering on the beaches below, pointing toward the sea and gossiping in small groups.

Right. John shook his head to clear it and began to follow the boy down. He did not have much time for introspection, not when there were mysterious occurrences afoot. He had come to the western edge of Wales for a week only, to escape the constricting nature of life with the retired old captains of the Royal Navy. London was fine, but needless to say, a week’s vacation would surely do him good.

Yet when the harbor master, an old acquaintance of John’s, had sent his son for him this morning with reports of something he needed to see, John had leaped at the chance.

“So what is it?” John asked old Stamford as he reached the bottom of the hill where the man waited. This town’s harbor was small but significant for the region; they needed the easy access to the shipments of supplies. Stamford and his young son had once lived in London, on the same street John had once taken rooms. Now, they were crossing paths again unexpectedly. Despite his quest for a bit of solitude, John had been glad to see a friendly face in this remote area.

“Looks like a ship,” Stamford replied, nodding. John followed his gaze, scanning the horizon in confusion. He could not discern a ship anywhere, no sign of hull or sails.

“Where?”

Stamford pointed, and John more closely followed his finger. His eyes found the sandy beach at the edge of the small harbor. Not an ideal place for a ship to drop anchor, but soon John spotted what Stamford meant. Fragments of what appeared to be wood floated in the shallows, buffeted on rocks or caught in seaweed or simply drifting aimless.

“Judging from the amount,” Stamford said. “It’s probably a ship’s hull, or mast. Either way, some vessel is in trouble out there.”

“Does this happen often?” John asked.

Stamford shook his head. “Not many ships get wrecked in these parts. There’s no reefs or shoals or anything to damage a ship for miles. But there were reports last night of what sounded like cannon fire a few miles out.” He pointed farther past the harbor, to some place beyond where the human eye could discern. John nodded. Cannons would certainly have the ability to cause damage enough to sink a ship, but he himself had not heard them; he had fallen so deeply asleep after his journey the younger Stamford had had to shake him rather rigorously to rouse him.

“I can’t confirm the reports,” Stamford continued. “But from the looks of it, there was at least one ship ‘round these parts last night.”

“So the rest of it…?” John began as they headed across the gently sloping grass as it transitioned into sand.

“The rest’ll either have sunk or is still on the way toward shore. There’s a chance we could get more here, I suppose, but you never know. I just wanted you to have a look at it, in case it’s one of your lot. Get word to the proper authorities, you know?”

John nodded. He hoped it wasn’t a ship of the line; he knew most of those captains and by extension their crews, and it would be a blow to lose even one.

However, as he and Stamford drew nearer to the debris, suspicion crept into John’s mind. If that was the main mast, this had been too small a vessel to the one of the Royal Navy’s. Its size was more befitting something like a schooner. Likely not one of his friends’ ships then.

He breathed a sigh of relief that turned, without warning, into a harsh gasp.

“What?” Stamford asked, turning to him with wide eyes.

But John ignored him, striding straight into the chill water and tugging a scrap of dark sodden fabric out of a clump of seaweed. He stared at it with wide eyes.

The fabric was pitch black in color, and though it was raggedly torn in half and burned at the edges, John could still distinguish the distinct shapes upon it.

A skull, a bone, and a heart, the latter drawn with the anatomical knowledge of either a surgeon… or a scientifically-minded pirate.

“ _Sea Dragon_ ,” John breathed in such a soft voice even he could hardly hear himself over the waves.

He turned toward the horizon, the piece of flag in his hands trailing into the ocean. More pieces of shattered wood were drifting in the waves. There was enough of it to ensure that anyone looking could be assured the ship the wood had once composed had not survived.

Unable to look at the destruction any longer, John closed his eyes, which were stinging from something other than the salty sea air.

The _Sea Dragon_ had been sunk. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

 

* * *

 

_Two weeks later..._

Evening light spread across London. John strode down a street, though he was unsure where he was. He had spent another meal with the crew of the _Silver Fox_ , but had begged off early, not wanting to spend another moment reliving their days at sea. Lestrade had bid him goodnight, but a lingering concern was clear in his eyes. Perhaps that concern was warranted, but not for the reasons Lestrade probably thought. No, John was not traumatized by his time with the pirates. Quite the opposite.

No, what Lestrade saw was not the memory of a pirate ship haunting John; it was grief. He would never see Sherlock Holmes again, would never get the opportunity to make amends for the way they had parted. Sherlock would never know John survived his wounds, would never fulfill his mission to destroy a corrupt and dangerous company that had changed his life forever.

Those thoughts were what truly haunted John.

“Lieutenant Watson,” a silky voice said.

John staggered to the side, hand flying to his hip, though he had no weapon. A man appeared, having been standing in a side street. John stiffened.

He was tall, with ginger-brown hair and a sharp nose. In his hands he clutched an umbrella, whigh he leaned against in a leisurely manner, as if surprising Navy men in dark alleys were a pastime of his.

“Who are you?” John asked.

The man gave him a mirthless smile. “No one of consequence. Although, I suppose, that depends whom you ask. Take yourself, for instance.”

“What do you mean?” John glanced around the area, but it was deserted.

“Utterly unremarkable,” the man said, with a vague gesture toward John’s general person. “When you examine the mere surface. Beneath, on the other hand… I suspect you are full of surprises.”

“What do you want with me?” John asked.

“Information,” the man replied in his smooth voice.

“What kind of information?” Thoughts of spies and espionage and damage to the Navy crossed his mind in rapid succession. He would not tell this man anything.

The man rolled his eyes. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. But perhaps you will be more comfortable discussing this in another location?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” John’s fists clenched at his sides. How could he have been so stupid as to leave his flintlock at home?

“Very well,” the man sighed. “Though I would have thought discussion of a certain pirate captain would intrigue you…”

“What?” John gasped without meaning to.

The man’s lip twisted in amusement. “I thought so.”

“What do you know about this? About him?” John stepped forward. He was still unsure of this man’s intentions, but John had to know if there was news of how and why Sherlock had died.

“I know that he took quite an interest in you, and now having met you in person, I can see why.” Again, those eyes flashed an appraising look over John. “You are a fascinating man.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your accolades, to begin with. But more than that…” His eyebrows lifted. “You seem to have earned the loyalty of Sherlock Holmes. That in itself is remarkable and, until now, nearly unheard of.”

Hearing Sherlock’s name spoken aloud acted as a stimulant; John moved forward and in one swift, assured motion had the man against the wall, his arm twisted behind his back. He let out a harsh breath but did not struggle.

John placed his mouth next to the man’s ear. “What do you know about him? And about me?”

“Lieutenant, I assure you,” the man said. John felt gratified to hear his voice had taken on a slightly strained note. “You ought not to follow through with the action you so dearly wish to take in regards to my arm.”

A click made John’s gaze dart to the side. A tall figure waited, a gun in his hand. John sighed and released the man. This was not worth being shot over; John had now had enough experience with bullet wounds and their effects for a lifetime.

The strange man straightened up and smoothed out his clothes. Posh, neat articles made of fine cloth, John noted. This was a man of means, and apparently was important enough to employ guards.

“Tell me,” John said, voice steady though his heart was pounding. “What makes you think you can show up without introducing yourself and expect me to willingly tell you everything you want to know about Sherlock Holmes?”

The man regarded him in silence for a beat, then smiled. It was almost genuine this time. “Apologies. You are too sensible to be frightened by such tactics.”

He slid off his dark glove and proffered his bared hand to John. “Mycroft Holmes.”

John froze, his own hand halfway to meeting his. His lips parted, and he gaped for several moments. “Mycroft? Sherlock’s brother?”

“Indeed.” Mycroft let his hand fall back to his side, though John could not make his own move.

“How do I know you are telling me the truth?” John asked. Sherlock had mentioned the NOTP had plenty of landed gentry in its pockets; how did John know this man truly was who he claimed?

“You are correct to ask. Rest assured, I _am_ Mycroft, despite your reasonable hesitance to believe it. My brother, seven years my junior, took to the seas nearly eight years ago to avenge the death of our father. His ship, a schooner, he named the _Sea Dragon_ , being always the more fanciful sibling.” Mycroft rolled his eyes, though for once, his countenance was not devoid of fondness. “His crew includes two English women named Irene Adler and Katherine Winter, a man called Ekene, and a disagreeable fellow called Wiggins, among others. He also employed a gentleman named Sebastian Moran for a time, though he has since been removed from the vessel.”

“How do I know you know this directly from Sherlock?” John shot back. “You could have spies, or… I don’t know, somehow intercepted some correspondence Sherlock sent to the _real_ Mycroft Holmes.”

“Quite possible, yes,” Mycroft nodded. “However, as I have no other means by which to convince you, you will have to trust that my knowledge comes from the very man whom we are discussing. And that I am who I say I am.”

He waited, hands clasped over the handle of his umbrella in front of him. John stared back. The light was dim, and growing ever dimmer as the sun retreated, but John could still distinguish the man’s features. The nose, the face shape, the hair color—all unlike Sherlock’s. It was difficult to believe this man and the pirate captain could be related.

Difficult, but not impossible.

For Mycroft’s eyes were the same shade of pale blue that Sherlock’s sometimes appeared in certain lights. And that intense gaze…

“Fine,” he sighed. “But what do you want with me, Mr. Holmes?”

“I have already divulged that. I desire information about my brother. It has been nearly three months since his last missive. I had hoped you were in contact with him.”

John frowned. “In contact? No, erm, no I am not. I haven’t seen him in more than seven months.”

He swallowed. Did Mycroft not know what had happened to the _Sea Dragon_? How was John supposed to tell him? The man had already lost his parents. How could John break the news about his brother’s death?

“You still hesitate,” Mycroft smirked. “You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

“What do you mean by that?” John asked, mostly to gain time.

“You were a member of the British Royal Navy for years, until a chance encounter with a pirate ship stranded you on what was essentially enemy territory. You spent a subsequent seventeen days aboard, less than a week of which was spent… intimately… with the captain of said ship. A frightfully short time to develop a deep attachment. And yet you still are given pause at the thought of speaking about him? Were you still with him, I might ask when to expect a happy announcement.”

John grit his teeth. “Well, you won’t. Sherlock Holmes is… no longer a part of my life.”

“I do not believe that,” Mycroft replied. “How was he, last you saw him?”

John’s heart stuttered. Mycroft really did not know his brother’s fate. “It does not matter. Not now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mycroft…” John looked down. “Listen. Your brother saved my life. He could have just as easily thrown me overboard when the _Silver Fox_ left without me, but he did not. He allowed me to stay on his ship and cared for my injury as best he could. It was the first thing that made me think he might have been different than other pirates I had heard about. And… he really was like nothing I’d ever seen before.

“He let me go at Lisbon, after he had made a terrible decision. There was a storm, and we saw a Dutch ship… Sherlock didn’t allow his crew to help, but the waves were so high and the storm so intense, I… I don’t know now if he was wrong. His first duty is to his own crew, not anyone else, especially in a situation such as that. But I didn’t understand then. I was angry, and I…” He swallowed, remembering the angry words he had hurled at Sherlock. “I am sorry for it. But not as sorry as I am for what I’m about to tell you.”

He lifted his gaze to meet Mycroft’s. The elder Holmes brother was still, eyes wider than they had been a minute previous. He knew, he _had_ to know, what John was about to say.

He said it anyway.

“The _Sea Dragon_ has sunk. I saw the wreckage myself. I’m so sorry, but… your brother is dead.”

Mycroft blinked once. When he spoke, his voice was low. “You are certain of this?”

“I am.” John nodded, holding the man’s gaze. “I wish it weren’t so, but I am afraid it is.”

They gazed at one another, the darkness descending around them as the last blue of the sky faded to black and the shadows crept up the walls.

“Well then,” Mycroft murmured. “I fear I have disturbed your evening needlessly.”

“No,” John shook his head. “Think nothing of it.”

Mycroft’s fingers were clenched on his umbrella. “I appreciate your information, Lieutenant. Now if you will excuse me.”

He strode past John, the man with the gun following at a respectful distance. At the end of the mews, Mycroft turned and faced John again.

“My brother told me about you. He said you were the finest and bravest man he had ever met. I hope you know that your time with him—from what I have deduced—affected him for the better. I am… grateful. I wish you the best in your ambitions.”

“He was extraordinary,” John said. He wished he could say more, find properly eloquent words, but all words failed him at that moment. They would not have done Sherlock justice anyway.

Mycroft inclined his head, then swept away. Leaving John alone in the dark.

 

* * *

 

_One month later…_

Wine flowed everywhere. Indeed, there were several places—on the _brand new ship_ —where the drink had been spilled, turning the new wood red. Trumpeters played on the poop deck, and revelers laughed and sang and shouted.

“Oi, Captain!” a rather tipsy Greg Lestrade slung an arm around John’s shoulders. “Why are you standing over here? Come have a dance.”

John smiled and lifted his wine in salute. “Thanks, Greg, but I fear if I tried to dance near you I’d be wounded.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” Lestrade protested.

John laughed and shoved him away. “I’ll be there in a bit.”

Greg sauntered off, linking arms with another member of the _Silver Fox_ ’s crew and knocking their drinks together. John watched in amusement, then shifted his gaze over the party to his ship.

 _His_ ship.

When the admiralty had informed him that they were making him a captain, he had not quite comprehended it. Now, standing on the deck of the newly-christened vessel, the potent realization washed over him like a wave.

He was a captain. He was returning to the sea at long last.

His crew was good, most of them chosen with help from Lestrade. They would work well together on their travels.

His ship was modest but well-equipped, shiny and new. He smiled at it and its clean white sails, which were unfurled and fluttering in the light breeze. Once the celebrating ended, John’s crew would have one more night before departing England. Most would take the final hours as one last chance to spend with their beloved, or to have a sizable meal of real food and drink, or both.

John, on the other hand, intended to spend the night on the ship. He wanted everything to be in readiness for an early departure in the morning, and to get a feel for the ship. She was yet untested in long voyages, and to survive she needed to be as familiar to John as his own hand.

He set down his drink, mostly finished, and made to join his old crew. He had not walked more than a few steps before there was a hand on his shoulder.

“Mycroft!” he said as he turned. “What are you doing here?”

The last surviving Holmes brother looked immaculate and perfectly sober. He gave John a tight-lipped smile. “I merely wanted to offer my congratulations. This is a high honor, Captain Watson.”

John grinned back. “Thank you. I didn’t expect this.”

“You ought to have. You have earned it.” Mycroft regarded him with those calm, calculating eyes, so like his brother’s had been. “I hope you will have a safe journey.”

“Thanks,” John ducked his head. Had Mycroft said the same thing to his brother the last time he had left London? Only to learn he would never come home again?

Mycroft nodded curtly, then turned to depart. John watched him go, wondering fleetingly if perhaps, with all Mycroft’s connections and knowledge and influence, he had been responsible for this promotion.

Again, he gazed up at the mast and sails and lines of his ship. Whether he had meddled or not, Mycroft would be a valuable ally. And staring at his new home, and at the ocean beyond, John felt he would need all the hope he could get.

 _Bloody hell_ , he thought with a sudden almost giddy grin. _I’m a captain_.

 

* * *

 

In another part of the world, far remote from London and its parties and luxury, another ship stood moored. It too was newly-constructed, sleek and sturdy. The name had been emblazoned on the side just hours before, and even now the flag was being attached to the mast.

Then, as one, several figures let the sails unfurl in a massive swell. As the fabric filled up with wind, the entire vessel swayed, as if it were sentient and knew that the time to depart neared.

At the prow, fingers reached up and seized a line. A pair of boots stepped onto the railing, the toes hovering over the side of the ship, over the water, as if poised to leap into action. A hand reached up and adjusted the headscarf, of darkest azure, that held down a mass of unruly hair. As the hand lowered again, its touch lingered against the harsh white scar that trailed across a collarbone.

“Captain?” a voice asked. The only response was a _hmm_ and cocked brow, so the voice continued. “Where are we headed?”

Before a reply could come, however, the ship turned away from port, and the crew began to cheer. The sun’s rays touched the ocean at just such an angle that the waters burst with light. Even the natural elements seemed to be extolling the dawn of the ship’s first journey.

And bright verdant-blue eyes crinkled with delight as Sherlock Holmes gazed over his domain from the prow of his ship.

He looked over his shoulder down at Irene, who still waited for an answer. His lip curved. They had a job to do, and he could not wait to resume work.

“To the horizon,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let this be a lesson to you: Don't ask me for whump because I'll just up and KILL the character! *evil laugh*  
> ...  
> *wink*
> 
> No but honestly, thank you so much for all the awesome feedback and kudos and comments! This story is such fun to write, and I'm delighted to see other people are getting attached to it too! 
> 
> The next chapter will be up soon!


	7. Man Overboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John encounters several surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice the chapter count has gone up... again. I hope that is good news, because after fiddling with this installment I realized there was going to be way too much story to fit into just two chapters (at least, chapters of a reasonable size). That said, this is still the longest one by far. Oh well! :)

“Captain, would you mind…?”

John looked around and saw James lugging up the anchor.

“Oh,” John hurried forward and assisted him. James smiled in gratitude, and John returned it.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said as they finished, straightened up, and faced one another. “Fancy a spar later?”

John nodded. “In a while. There’s a few matters I need to take care of first.” Their navigator had taken ill, so John was scrambling to ensure the charting of their course had been completed properly. Still, a sparring session with James was not something he wanted to miss. John knew the former captain was an excellent fighter, had known ever since the day John had met him on a dock in France, several months ago. He had invited the man to join his crew after a day of talking and sparring, made him his Lieutenant a fortnight after that, and had never regretted his decisions regarding the man once since.

James inclined his head and strode away. John, meanwhile, retreated to his cabin to find the maps.

His cabin was sparse, neat, and organized. A bed, meticulously made, a shelf running along the wall, a small chest, and a small desk were the only pieces of furniture. John had never been a material man, though, so this suited him fine.

He sat down at the desk and tugged the maps spread across it towards him. They were days from land, assuming the weather cooperated. The _Fusilier_ made for India, which John looked forward to seeing again. Mostly for the food…

He laboured for a while, measuring and making notations. His navigation abilities were not as refined as their navigator, but he has ensured from months of study that they were well enough should he have to take charge of these matters. The _Fusilier_ seemed to be on course, but with many days yet to travel before their arrival.

Satisfied, he set down his compass and pencil and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a sigh. How long had it been since they had been to India? He was not sure; it must have been at least six months.

Desiring to refresh his memory of the place, John pulled open the desk drawer to retrieve his private log. He flicked through the notes and stories he had jotted down over the past two years, then jumped as a slip of paper fluttered out of the pages onto the floor. Curious, he picked it up.

Oh.

Sherlock’s face, or the closest approximation John’s less-than-refined art skills could manage, stared up at him from the sheet of paper. The pirate captain was leaning against the railing of the _Sea Dragon_ , resting on his forearms. His sleeves were turned up past his elbows—it was that shirt of darkest Tyrian purple, judging from the shading. That was the shirt he had loved so much on Sherlock (almost as much as he loved taking it off the man). Sherlock’s face was turned slightly towards John, a small smile tugging at his shapely lips.

John had nearly forgotten about drawing this. It felt like a lifetime ago he had found the bit of charcoal and paper in Sherlock’s desk. He recalled, as though thinking back on a wondrous dream, how that evening—mere days before the fateful storm that had changed so much—had been calm and quiet. Sherlock, unable to sleep, had gone onto the deck to think. John had awoken alone in bed and gone in search of his lover. On impulse, he had taken the paper and sketched the remarkable pirate when he had found him. It had been many minutes before Sherlock, emerging from deep in his mind, had noticed his presence. The smile had been the last detail John had time to draw before Sherlock had approached, examined his work, and then swept him into his arms.

How long it had been since then. Yet this memory rushed back to him as potent as the day it had been made, as though the intervening three years held no diminishing power over it.

And God, had it really been three years? John checked the date he had scrawled on the back of the sketch. Yes, that long. Over two years since getting the _Fusilier_ , three years since he had been with Sherlock.

Looking back on all that time after he had left Sherlock, John remembered few details. Yes, there had been new places, acquaintances, and excitement, but even those things seemed duller than they should. What he did remember with utmost clarity was taking the bandages off his shoulder for the final time. He remembered taking the helm of the _Fusilier_ for the first time and setting off across the open seas, as a captain of the Royal Navy.

But more than anything else, he remembered the sadness, the pain, and the unexpected grief.

He had never expected to mourn a pirate, and yet here he was.

Though it had been three years, he sometimes still woke gasping and crying out as echoes of thunder, cries of men, and crashing waves reverberated in his ears. Among the yells now, however, was Sherlock’s voice. He called for John, through wind and what might have been cannon fire. John turned, seeking but never finding. Until the storm passed and the nightmare ended and left John with nothing but a cold bed, a tattered flag, and tears mingling with the sweat on his face.

And now, each time he looked in the mirror after bathing, he saw the lurid mark on his shoulder. It had healed but left an angry scar behind. If he closed his eyes, sometimes he almost could feel Sherlock’s fingers on it, almost could hear Sherlock’s voice whispering in his ear as they pressed close together.

He hated that scar. He hated that each time he set eyes on it, he thought of Sherlock.

He reminded himself on a near-constant basis that he had not even known Sherlock for a long time, only seventeen days in total. Hardly enough time to really know the man.

And yet. Sherlock had been so vivid, so alive, so full of passion and intensity and fire and ice all at once. How could John not mourn him?

Eventually, he had pressed his grief back into a deep part of himself, trying to move on with his life. He sailed, glad to be in charge of his own vessel, appreciative of the freedom it afforded him. He needed to work past the pain of losing Sherlock.

His ship, the _Fusilier_ , was a good one. Sturdy and large, but still maneuverable, it was one of the best ships of the line he had ever seen.

He should be happy, happier than he had ever been. And yet.

The Royal Navy seemed… different. Whenever John would visit London now, he would inevitably find himself pulled into yet another soiree put on by the admiralty. And more and more, they referenced the New Orient Trading Programme in conversations. John hardly knew what to make of such allusions, only that he feared many of the men he knew and respected were somehow beholden to that group.

And his occasional encounters with Mycroft only intensified that impression. The man was always a bit distant, a bit overly polite, but certain hints he made to John sent chills through him.

“ _John, take what Captain Walton tells you with a healthy dose of skepticism. My agents inform me he has been smuggling weapons_.”

To comments such as those, John would always ask what he was to do with such information. Mycroft always replied in an irritatingly cryptic manner.

“ _You never know when such knowledge could save your life, Captain. And I have an interest in keeping you alive._ ”

John had not seen the last surviving Holmes for nearly a year, but the last he had heard, the man was well. He still worked against the NOTP, but John had seen no signs of the organization weakening. Lately, he had begun to doubt that they were even vulnerable at all. Perhaps such a company was permanent, fixed in reality. Perhaps there was no stopping its corruption of England, of the world.

When he had begun this line of work, he had never dreamed of doubting the Navy. Now, on the other hand, he wondered how much longer he could justify working with men who might be in the pockets of the NOTP, or at least who did not act against it. He wondered if he could truly turn his back on the job that had helped give him purpose and which—indirectly—had led him to the greatest man he had ever known.

No. None of that right now. Memories of Sherlock were reserved for quiet moments, alone in the middle of the night after a nightmare. Not now. He sighed heavily and stood up. Enough work and worrying. Time for something more enjoyable.

He headed topside, and found James waiting for him, as he had expected. It was getting on in the day, and most of the crew had gone below for a meal or a drink. However, it was cooler with the sun setting, and John and James often fitted in a spar at this time before they ate.

James heard him coming and turned with a smile, his sword already in his hand. John grinned back. In another life, he might have admired how the light of the evening sun complemented James’ tanned skin, or how the wind lifted his hair and tousled it slightly. In another life, he might have acted on the attraction he knew he felt, to at least some degree, for the man in front of him.

But he suspected with increasing resolve that this was not that life.

He pulled his own sword out of its sheath and smirked. “Are you sure you want to do this, James Sholto?” he asked. “After all, isn’t it nine to four this week alone?”

James rolled his eyes. “We agreed the last spar yesterday was a draw.”

“Fine, fine,” John lowered his center of gravity and began to circle the man. “Eight to four, with one draw besides. You’re still slipping.”

“Oh, I’ll show you slipping, Watson.” He moved forward, and their swords connected in a flash of sparks.

John laughed and deflected the weapon with ease, then ducked the next attempted blow. He stepped to the side, spinning, and brought his sword up overhead. James cursed under his breath, barely catching John’s sword in time as it slashed downward.

Systematically, John backed James up, sending blow after blow at him. At last, James’ back hit the railing, and he was forced to lean backward to avoid John’s next attack. He pushed back hard on John’s sword, and gained ground again. John retreated accordingly, watching Sholto’s feet and body language.

 _He’s going to feint right_ , he thought. So when his opponent’s toes shifted, John leaped to the side and brought his sword forward.

The impact sent vibrations up John’s arm, but they did nothing but bring a grin to his face. In one swift, sure motion, one he had practiced a hundred times, he let momentum carry his sword up. Then, he swung himself around just as Sholto feinted to the right.

He knocked Sholto to the ground, John’s sword an inch from his neck.

They froze. Then, a grin spread across James’ face.

“Fine,” he huffed. “You win. Again. Now let me up.”

John laughed as he leaped to his feet and offered the other man a hand. Sholto took it, the scar tissue on his left hand rough and ropy to the touch.

“Damn, John Watson.” James shook his head. “You are a force to be reckoned with. How is it you only first began training with a sword a few years ago?”

John rubbed his neck and looked down. “It’s largely thanks to you, you know. Without you to practice with...”

Then, James’ fingers were there, lifting John’s chin so he had no choice but to look at the man. “Much of it is your talent, John. Do not be so humble when you have such natural abilities.”

John smiled. “Still. It was a good day for me when I met you on that dock in Calais.”

“For us _both_ ,” Sholto corrected. They sheathed their swords and leaned against the railing. “I do not know what my life would be if you had not come.”

John pressed his lips together. James never spoke of what had happened, of what had caused the scarring on his arm, face, and probably chest as well. John had heard the rumours, but never learned the full story from the man himself. He assumed his friend still was not ready to speak of it. After all, he had been the only survivor, his entire crew dead, his captaincy stripped as a result.

And it had only been six months ago.

“James,” John murmured. “It’s alright. You have a home here, on the _Fusilier_.”

But Sholto’s head was bowed, and he winced. John frowned. “James. Are you alright?”

“Sorry, I…” James touched his forehead, wincing. “I have an ache suddenly.”

Instantly, John’s posture straightened. “What else? Do you feel unsteady at all? Is your vision clear?” James’ arm did feel a bit clammy, now that John noticed. His time working with the ship doctor, soaking in as much information as he could in case of an emergency when the doctor himself was absent, flooded back. “James?”

“I do feel a bit… odd.” Sholto stood, as if to shrug it off, but he swayed. John leaped up and steadied him.

“You need something to eat,” he said. “A drink, but most importantly food. Fruit, if we have any left.”

He led James down to the galley, where he located oranges. They would have to do. He would have the man eat a proper meal once he felt better, but for now he needed something sweet. This had happened before, and John had noticed sweet types of food worked best to alleviate the distress.

“Eat these,” he shoved them into Sholto’s hands. “I’ll get us some more food in a bit.”

After working his way through each segment of the citrus, Sholto appeared to feel better, if a bit embarrassed. John waved it off and retrieved them more substantial fare.

“Thank you,” James said after they had eaten in companionable silence for several minutes.

John met his eyes. “Think nothing of it.”

“No, not just for this…” James gestured to the orange peels. “I mean for giving me a place here. I know many of the admirals balked at your choice.”

“They should not have,” John said in a firm voice. “I made the correct decision.”

“Still, my reputation made matters difficult for you for a while. I hope you know how grateful I am for your assistance.” His hand brushed across John’s where it lay on the tabletop. “And your friendship.”

John’s heart had accelerated. The way James was looking at him…

“You are remarkable, John,” Sholto continued. He was blushing slightly, and John felt panic rise in his throat. “I…”

“James,” he interrupted, swallowing. “You are as well.”

“I believe, I _know_ , there is something…” Sholto smiled, a little self-consciously. “Something more than friendship between us.”

Dammit.

“James,” John tried again. “I… I am afraid such a thing would be indecorous. I am your captain. I cannot be more than that.”

He loathed the hypocrisy of his own words. Sherlock had been a captain, after all. John supposed he could argue with himself that he had not truly been a crew member under Sherlock, but what would be the point? Saying this to James stung no matter how John tried to rationalize it.

James was frowning. “Is that the only reason?”

John froze, any number of responses blooming and dying in his throat in rapid succession. How could he even begin to explain?

It seemed, however, that he did not need to. Sholto’s face fell, his lips tightening and shoulders sagging.

“Someone hurt you,” he murmured. “I had suspected. They are the reason you are avoiding this, aren’t they?”

John sighed. “I…”

“It is alright.” James shook his head and stood. “Think nothing of what I said tonight, Captain.”

He strode toward the stairs that led to the crew’s quarters. One foot on the first stair, he paused and glanced back. “Whoever they were… I hope they loved you, at least for a while.”

John watched him descend the stairs. But instead of seeing broad, tanned shoulders and golden-grey hair, he saw a different figure in his mind’s eye. Slimmer but still devastatingly male, with wild dark curls.

 _You’re wrong, James_ , he thought to himself. _I avoid this because, try as I might, I can’t forget him. He made life worth living. So it wouldn’t be fair to you. And I don’t know how to explain that my days with him, few as they were, were the best days of my life_.

 

* * *

 

The next morning dawned bright and hot. John ventured to the deck almost immediately, as down below was stifling and still. Better to seek out shade and a breeze.

He spotted Sholto, working at tying off a line. The man caught his gaze and nodded, some warmth in his eyes. John nodded back, relieved. Despite their conversation the previous night, it seemed James had decided it not worth it to jeopardize their friendship and status as captain and first mate.

He was promptly distracted from matters of the heart, then, as a cry rang out.

“Man overboard!”

Everyone seemed to leap into action. John himself darted to the railing, glancing up toward the crow’s nest on his way, to see his watchman pointing.

There, drifting in what appeared to be a clump of seaweed and branches, was a man.

John did not hesitate; he reached up and seized a line, loosening it from its anchor. “James,” he called.

Sholto came forward and seized the other end of the line to anchor him. “Are you sure, Captain?” he asked. “One of us can-”

John just shook his head, grinning. “No, it’s alright.”

He leaped over the ship railing and plunged toward the ocean’s surface.

The water was cold, and a shock to his system. He oriented himself, hand still clutching the line, and gasped a breath. The man floated a short distance away, so John set off. His technique was unrefined, but it got the job done. He reached the man quickly, and moved close to examine him.

He looked ill, exhausted. His face was pink and peeling from the sun, his hair was tangled, and his eyes were closed. He appeared to be perhaps thirty years of age.

Most importantly, he was alive. His pulse thumped, slow but steady, beneath John’s fingers on his chest.

John looked up toward the decks of the _Fusilier_. “He’s alive!” he called, and the crew murmured. “We’re bringing him aboard! Someone fetch the doctor!”

Kicking to keep himself upright in the water, John tied the rope around his own waist, then extracted the man from the seaweed and driftwood bundle in which he had entangled himself. He dragged him out, grunting and gasping from exertion, and felt the man stir.

“It’s alright,” John said. “You’re safe now.”

With somewhat jerking motions, the crew pulled John and the man upward, toward the deck. As they reached the railing, John seized it and helped his crew lug them over. Several pairs of hands reached out to steady John and lower the still-unconscious man to the deck.

John bent over him. Their doctor, a man called Hayes, joined him.

“He’s got to have been out here at least a day, probably more,” John said between heaving breaths. “I can’t see if he is injured anywhere.”

“Let’s get him below,” Hayes suggested. Together with Sholto, he and John carried him below-decks and laid him in the infirmary. Hayes examined him, John watching with worry and confusion.

Sholto brought John a clean cloth. He wrapped it around himself, shivering. “Thank you, James.”

James nodded. “What do you think happened to him?”

“He was shot,” Hayes said abruptly. “Look.” He pulled back the man’s shirt for them to see; indeed, there was a graze across his torso. A bullet had barely missed his stomach, leaving behind a long scratch.

“Any other wounds?” Sholto asked as Hayes pulled off the ragged shirt and set it aside. “Where did he come from?”

“I don’t know,” John said. “But he needs treatment nevertheless. Even if he has no other injuries, he will need food, water, and rest. Being exposed to the sea and sun for as long as he has will have weakened him. Sholto, see that there is a place free for him in the crew’s quarters. And Hayes, prepare a salve for his skin.”

Both men nodded, and the former departed to do as bid.

“Will he live?” John asked. He suspected so, but wanted the official doctor’s opinion nonetheless.

“I do not know. Possibly.”

John nodded. “I’d best get him something to eat then.”

 

* * *

 

The man did not awaken for hours. The day had shifted into afternoon, and John was nodding off in the chair beside him by the time he at last opened his eyes.

“Where… where am I?” he croaked.

John started at his voice, then sat forward. “You’re awake,” he smiled. “Fear not, you’re safe here.”

“Who are you?” he asked, then coughed.

John retrieved the cup of water he had procured earlier and helped the man take a sip. “I am Captain John Watson, British Royal Navy. This is the _Fusilier_. We are bound for India. We found you today, drifting. What is your name? How did you come to be in that situation?”

The man coughed again and drank more deeply. “Thank you, Captain Watson. You’ve saved my life, I suspect.”

He returned the emptied cup to John’s hand and lay back. “I was on board a ship belonging to the East India Company. It was set upon, hence the situation in which you found me. It’s Victor, by the way. Victor Trevor.”

John stiffened, the cup clattering to the floor. Blood rushed through his ears as, without warning, he was transported back.

_Sherlock looked at him with those fathoms-deep eyes of cobalt and steel. “Have you heard anything of a specific pirate gentleman, by the name of Victor Trevor, within the last few months?”_

“You’re Victor Trevor?” John managed, voice coming out hoarse and strangled.

“Yes,” Victor’s forehead creased. “Have you heard of me?”

John stammered for a moment, heart pounding too hard for him to formulate a sensible reply. “I…”

He could hardly believe it. Even three years ago, Sherlock had been searching for Victor for years. How had John found him, here and now?

“How did you get here?”

Victor hesitated, eyeing John with no small amount of unease. “It’s alright,” John said quickly. “I’m… a friend of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock?” Victor’s entire bearing changed. He sat up on his elbows, a smile creasing his handsome face. “I lost track of him years ago.” He smirked. “How did he befriend a Navy man?”

John smiled. “We ran into each other at sea. I spent some time on his ship.”

“Did he tell you what we’ve been trying to do? With the NOTP and all?”

John nodded, even as his heart twisted in his chest.

“Well, that makes things simpler.” Victor sat up, movements slow and deliberate. John could tell he still felt sore. “So you know I got in with the East India Company. Not the cleanest company, but they aren’t the ones murdering people and bringing illegal opium and weapons into Europe, far as I can tell. They trusted me, so it’s a shame they likely think I’m dead.” He shook his head, the russet-and-copper locks shifting across his forehead with the motion.

“What happened, Victor?” John asked. “How did you fall overboard?”

But Victor winced, and sweat had broken out on his forehead. He dropped his head back down onto the infirmary table. “I…”

John touched his skin, worried. He felt feverish. Not surprising, considering he had been floating in a chill ocean for at least a day.

“Never mind,” he murmured. “Rest now, and we can speak of this in the morning. I will ensure you are well-cared for. When you feel strong enough, you may have a berth in the crew’s quarters. For tonight, I’d rather have my ship doctor monitor you.”

“Thank you, Captain Watson,” Victor opened his eyes and caught John’s gaze again. “And in the morning, will you tell me of Sherlock?”

John gave a stiff nod, then turned and departed.

So. He had the night to decide how best to reveal to Victor Trevor that his old friend was dead.

Well, he sighed as he headed for his cabin. That was a problem for the morning.

 

* * *

 

Afternoon shifted into evening, and the yellow sun shifted to orange, just a finger’s-width above the horizon. But John did not see it as he ate his meal with his crew in the galley. The winds had been strong and favourable; he estimated they would arrive at least a full day early at this rate. At the moment, the winds had died down slightly, but were still steady. All seemed set for a calm, unpredictable night at sea.

He should have known better than to think that.

BOOM.

The ship rocked. Everyone staggered to catch themselves, and dinnerware clattered to the floor. John leaped to his feet.

“What the hell was-”

BOOM.

This time, a great crash accompanied the sound. A cannonball burst inside and rocketed through the galley. John, along with most of the others, was thrown to the floor from the impact. He scrambled up immediately.

“Topside, men! We’re under attack!”

He raced up to the deck, whipping his flintlock out of its holster and ensuring his sword was still in its sheath on his other hip.

He emerged and nearly collapsed all over again at the sight before him. A ship, a massive, dark-hulled horror of a thing, was alongside them.

BOOM.

This time, the cannonball smashed through their mainmast, which creaked and tilted dangerously. The men who had followed John onto the deck cried out.

How the hell had this happened? John whirled in a circle. There, up at the helm, lay a sailor. A harpoon protruded from his back. No wonder there had been no warning cry.

BOOM.

“Get out of the way!” someone yelled. John dove to the side, just in time, as the mainmast swayed and plunged downward. It smashed to the deck and into the sea with an almighty crash.

BOOM.

John forced himself up even as the ship trembled beneath his feet and lifted his gun. The other ship’s deck brimmed with men, all armed to the teeth. Bullets and harpoons flew in the air around him. They did not appear to be attempting to board, simply attacking with lethal force.

John sent a shot of his own toward them and thought he might have hit one of them. But there were twice the number of men on board that ship than on the _Fusilier_. Even as John’s crew fought back, they were falling. Screams rent the air.

BOOM.

The _Fusilier_ swayed, and waves swept up over the deck. John’s feet slid on the soaked wood, and something grazed his arm, sharp enough to draw blood.

He ducked down below the railing to reload and stared about. His men were doing their best, many having found cover from which to shoot. Others had apparently made it below, for their own guns were firing cannonballs at the enemy. But several men lay sprawled on the deck, motionless. The water tinged red around their bodies.

BOOM.

More screams. The _Fusilier_ rocked once more, and John felt the entire vessel tilt. The aft end rose high above the stern. The hull was breached. They were sinking.

“Move!” John yelled over the noise. “Move aft!”

Mere moments passed before John saw it was a futile effort. As they ran, the enemy crew redirected fire toward their destination. More blood soaked into the deck.

John rose to his feet again, firing back at the other ship. He scanned its decks, seeking a captain, a lieutenant, or anyone who looked to be in charge. But the _Fusilier_ ’s unsteady swaying and sinking and the projectiles soaring through the air made that impossible.

BOOM.

He staggered and fell against the railing. Below, floating in the waves, were bodies of his men. “Oh, God,” he gasped.

“Captain!” came Sholto’s voice. “What do we do?”

John stared at the ship, with its terrifying size and black sails, and glared.

“Drop the longboats!” he bellowed. “Abandon ship!”

The cry was taken up on all sides, even as the _Fusilier_ was hit again by yet another round of cannonfire. Men raced for their last hope, as the small boats were dropped frantically into the waves. John fired back once more as he backed toward one of them.

“Watson!” a voice screamed, and a hand seized his arm. John whirled to find Victor Trevor’s wide eyes inches from his face.

“Trevor, come on!”

“No, Watson, you don’t understand!” he cried. His chest was heaving, and a gash on his forehead sent rivulets of scarlet blood down his cheek. “The longboats won’t save us! They-”

But new screams cut off Victor’s words. John ducked a harpoon and peered over the railing.

The other crew was firing their weapons at the longboat that had just reached the surface. The men on it fought back, but one by one, they fell.

John turned back to Victor, who had tears streaming down his face. “It’s no good,” he said. “We have to abandon ship. Come with us, Trevor.”

He rushed to the nearest longboat and joined the men lowering it into the water. “Stay alert, men,” he cried.

He took a moment to scan the deck. The only men left on board now were prone, bleeding. John felt his heart crack at the sight.

He seized a protesting Victor’s arm and launched the man into the last longboat as it began to descend. _Goodbye, dear girl_ , he thought as he patted the railing. Then, he swung his legs over the railing and plunged toward the ocean.

He hit the water with a punch. All the air escaped his lungs from the blow, and he surfaced quickly, gasping. The longboats moved away from him, paddling frantically from the _Fusilier_ and her destroyer.

Bullets and harpoons continued to rain down. John made it to a longboat and clung to the side, watching helplessly as his men died around him.

He spotted Victor, curled up at the bottom of the longboat, and seized his arm.

“How did you know they’d continue to attack us?” he demanded, keeping his head as low as possible to avoid injury.

“They have two sails,” the other man managed to say. “Look.”

John turned. Indeed, their attacker had two sets of sails on their masts, though one was coiled up. He wondered at the purpose for a moment, then noticed the end of the mizzenmast. A gun or a cannonball perhaps had sliced through the top of it, ripping the sails. Both sails. The black one hung loose, and the other had come unfurled slightly. Instead of also being black, however, John could see it was bright red.

He looked back at Victor. “What-?”

But another volley swept down over them, and John ducked under the boat to avoid it. He opened his eyes beneath the water, and immediately wished he had not; human forms drifted, horribly still in death. Bullets and harpoons shot through the water, and left thin trails of bubbles in their wake. The boom of the cannons, though muffled now, still sent chills through John.

 _I will not die here_ , he vowed.

He held his breath and began to float, limbs loose and splayed. If he appeared dead, perhaps they would not shoot him…

_I will not die here!_

 

* * *

 

“Cannon fire, Captain!” Winter called down from the crow’s nest. “To the southwest!”

Sherlock lowered the telescope. “I know.”

“What are we going to do, Sherlock?” Irene raced up to his side. The entire crew was tensed, weapons at the ready, watching their leaders.

He hesitated and lifted the scope to his eye once more. In the distance, he could discern the silhouette of a ship, and another shape in the water. Likely the victim of the attack, sinking.

Finally. After all these years of researching, intelligence-gathering, and seeking, he had found it. It was _in sight_ , for the first time in his life.

“Sherlock?” Irene pressed. “We’re going after them, aren’t we?”

“What about the other ship?” Winter asked, dropping to the ground next to them. “We’re just going to leave them to die?”

Sherlock turned away and closed his eyes. His goal was so close to being in his grasp. He could not let it slip from his fingers now, not after all the years he had dedicated to tracking it down and getting revenge. His family had been torn apart because of the NOTP, and this breakthrough could mean ending them at last.

So why, he wondered, did letting that unknown ship sink give him pause?

 _You know why_.

The voice sent a jolt through Sherlock. For it was John’s voice.

Behind his closed eyelids, John’s face swam before him. That fascinating face, so ordinary at first glance but containing such multitudes. Now, he watched Sherlock with plaintive earnestness.

_You really are what you seemed to be when I met you._

_And what am I?_

_Nothing but a heartless pirate_.

Sherlock flinched. The memory of that night, so full of lighting and thunder and fury, had haunted him for three years. He had replayed it so many times he could have described the shape of the clouds, told the number of raindrops clinging to John’s lashes, and counted the heartbeats that passed during that awful exchange of words.

“Turn us about southwest,” he ordered aloud. The sound of his own voice cutting through the silence startled him.

And in the distance, cannons like thunder.

“Going to finally get them?” Irene’s eyes lit up. “If what you think is true, that they’re key to the NOTP’s operations, they’re sure to have riches aplenty aboard.”

As the helmsman turned them toward the sea battle, Sherlock fixed on her.

“This is about more than mere theft, Irene. As you know, I have never been a mere pirate.”

He faced the bow again. His grip tightened on his sword. It had been three years, but he _would_ prove himself worthy of John, even if John were not present to witness his actions.

 

* * *

 

BOOM.

John tilted his head to the side, risking a quick breath before dipping his face once more into the water. How long he had floated, he was unsure. Minutes, perhaps a quarter of an hour. All he knew was that his ploy had worked; he appeared dead and thus had not actually been shot to death.

BOOM.

That sounded… distant. Cautious, John lifted his head and scanned the area through the seawater that streamed from his hair into his eyes. The wreckage of several longboats floated, unmanned, their occupants unmoving. Wood, sails, and ropes dotted the water, and the hulking mass of the _Fusilier_ creaked and groaned as it slowly inched down into the depths, an irrevocable demise. A few hundred metres away, the enemy ship waited and watched for signs of life from John’s crew. It had unfurled its second set of sails, and all John saw when he looked at it was shocking scarlet silhouetted against the sky.

So where was the source of the distant cannonfire?

Sudden cries from their destroyer made John start. He watched, in awe and bewilderment, as the crew burst into a flurry of motion, and the ship pulled away.

 _They aren’t fighting?_ John wondered. _What is happening?_

He soon found an answer as new sounds reached his ears. Another ship, sleek and much smaller than their assailant, appeared in his peripheral vision, and he whirled in the water. It looked less aged than the enemy’s, perhaps the age of the _Fusilier_. Something about its shape told John it was constructed for speed, perhaps even stealth.

Energy surged through John again. Was this another foe? But it could not be; the first ship had fled without hesitation. Yet this was not a Royal Navy ship, or any other ship of a nation John recognized.

So was it a pirate vessel?

He treaded water, watching as the ship did not give chase, but instead grew nearer and nearer to the wreckage. Longboats splashed into the water. John could see people on board, calling out, asking for survivors to reveal themselves.

John swiveled his head. Most of his crew was dead, but he now saw a few who watched him. Some had feigned death as John had, others were injured and bleeding enough to appear deceased without trying. And they watched him. Their ship destroyed, their friends killed, and they still looked to John for leadership and guidance.

Very well. John started forward, though exhaustion from so long staying afloat and holding his breath made his movements sluggish. Still, he reached the first of the longboats before any of his surviving men.

“Identify yourselves,” a man said. He did not appear to be armed, but John was sure he had a concealed weapon somewhere. It would be foolhardy not to.

“We are the crew of the _Fusilier_ , ship of the line of the British Royal Navy.” His voice scraped out of his throat, which seemed coated in saltwater residue. He forced himself to press on. “Please. Help us.”

But before he could finish speaking the request, hands were pulling him forward, up, and into the longboat. John watched, winded and shocked, as the newcomers assisted his wounded and bedraggled men to safety.

The short distance to the new ship and the subsequent climb up the ladder to the deck were a blur to John, who was both relieved and mystified by their sudden change of fortune. What captain would move toward a deadly sea battle for the sole purpose of lending aid to strangers? John had had it proven to him years ago that a captain ought not risk his own crew in such dangerous circumstances, as difficult as the decision may be.

He staggered when his feet connected with the deck, and he landed on hands and knees, gasping and coughing. He recovered quickly and turned.

Ten men. Only ten men, including himself, had made it off the _Fusilier_ alive. Shame and grief boiled within him.

 _I failed them_.

“Who are you?” One of the men, John could not see who, demanded of their rescuers.

“Don’t trust them!” Sholto growled. His eyes, John saw, were on the flag far above. It was barely visible in John’s waterlogged gaze, but appeared to be black rather than the bold red and gold of the NOTP. He squinted and spotted a skull stitched onto it.

“Pirates.” John breathed. He was hardly aware of speaking aloud.

The word acted as a stimulant. At once, despite their injuries and fatigue and pain, John’s men fought against those who had helped them.

Fighting broke out all across the deck, and John was buffeted to the side. His hip slammed into the railing, and he crumpled once again. As he gripped the wood to steady himself, he caught sight of someone he never thought he would see again.

A woman with a lithe build and dark hair that tumbled down her back stood near the mizzenmast, out of reach of the scuffle. Her eyes were as blue as an Arctic glacier.

And John’s feet moved without his command.

“Irene!” He grabbed the woman's arm and spun her about. Immediately, the pirate's face lit up.

“John!” she gasped.

His mind was spinning, heart pounding so hard he could hardly think. Irene, here, alive? As he turned his head, more faces—familiar faces—swam before him. Kitty Winter, Kate, and Ekene.

This could not be possible.

“Put down your weapons!” he bellowed. “My men, put down your weapons!”

Those nearest responded within instants, though several farther along the deck did not appear to hear him. Most did not drop their weapons, only lowered them to their sides. He called out again, but Irene put a hand on his arm to stay him.

“Pirates!” she yelled. Her voice carried only as well as John’s did, but the crew she addressed responded nonetheless. “Lay down arms!”

Clatters and thumps greeted these words as swords and guns fell.

Satisfied, or rather too stunned to do anything else at the moment, John turned to Irene and gripped her arms as though they were lifelines.

“You’re not dead,” he breathed.

She grinned. “Of course. Didn’t think you’d seen the last of us when we dumped you in Lisbon, did you?”

“Us,” he echoed. “Who’s…”

She could not mean the other crew members he had seen; her teasing grin could only mean one thing.

But that was impossible. Disbelief thrummed through him. He whirled, hoping, desperate, terrified to be right but more terrified to be wrong. When he called out, his voice rose above the others who murmured around him.

“Who is the captain?”

_One more miracle, please..._

“That would be me.”

John turned and found standing before him, just as tall and curly-haired and brilliant as ever, was Sherlock Holmes.

The pirate captain smiled at him, joyful incredulity and a hint of playfulness lighting up his features. “Captain Watson,” he said, so softly John could only read his lips to understand.

John stared back. “Sherlock,” he whispered.

They moved forward, those gathered parting before them, many with shock and bemusement flashing across their features. John’s hands grabbed at Sherlock’s forearms, though Sherlock’s hands came up to either side of John’s face in an almost reverent way.

“You’re here,” John said, too amazed for any other words.

“I am,” Sherlock said. “And it seems you are fortunate to be here as well.”

But before either of them could speak further, another voice joined in.

“Sherlock Holmes?” Victor gaped. He had somehow staggered to the front of the crowd, despite his shaking legs and pale, bloodied face.  

Sherlock wrenched his gaze from John to Victor. His jaw dropped, though his grip on John barely loosened. “Victor?”

The other man nodded, swallowing. “Yes, I-”

“Where have you _been_?” Sherlock’s eyes flicked all over Victor, no doubt deducing and analyzing.

“Captain Watson saved my life,” Victor said, gesturing to John.

“Of course he did,” Sherlock turned a fond smile toward John. “But…” he twisted around to look at Victor again, a furrow in his brow. “How did you… what are you doing here? I’ve been trying to find you.”

Victor stammered the same explanation he had given John, though his voice wavered and his body swayed. Instead of listening, though, John found himself examining Sherlock. He looked strong, healthy, and just as beautiful and handsome as ever. Though he seemed a bit thinner, his muscles were just as well-defined as ever beneath his brilliant seafoam-green shirt and dark-as-night trousers. He wore his usual black boots, but had added a striking blue headscarf across his forehead.

“The EIC likely will think I’m dead once our ship fails to arrive in port,” Victor was saying. “Which is rather inconvenient for what I’ve been trying to do. But on the other hand…” he smirked. “I managed to fake my death.”

Sherlock frowned at him for another moment, then an unexpected grin flitted across his angular face. “Typical,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You always liked a dramatic exit.”

They beamed at each other. Everyone had gone still, watching the strange exchange. Then, Irene approached. “Sherlock?” she asked, her hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps we should deal with our guests?”

John’s men shifted on their feet, uncertain what to make of such a phrase as “deal with.” Sherlock, on the other hand, nodded.

“Wiggins!” he barked. “Bring out rations for these men. Water, too. Anyone injured, my doctor will see to you below-decks.”

All their eyes shifted to John, who nodded. Grudgingly, they set down their weapons and moved together into a group. Sherlock’s crew dispersed, working to get the vessel moving once more. John spotted Wiggins shooting off to obey his captain’s command.

John and Sherlock, though, did not move. Their eyes found one another again. All at once John found himself at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say to a man he had parted on tense terms with, then thought dead for years? Sherlock seemed similarly uncertain. Meanwhile, Victor surveyed them, brown eyes sharp and observant. And with a quick touch on Sherlock’s arm, he excused himself.

The instant they were alone, something in Sherlock’s expression softened. “John.” He stared at John as if he had been bidden to memorize him.

“ _Victor_ likes a dramatic exit?” John echoed, voice hoarse. “That’s rich, coming from the most dramatic person I’ve ever met.”

“John,” Sherlock repeated, and his fingers found John’s and squeezed. That look of awe and amazement still shone in his eyes.

John smiled in spite of himself. “Sherlock.”

“I…” Sherlock lifted his other hand and brought it to John’s cheek again. “You’re here.”

“Thanks to you,” John nodded. “You saved our lives.”

Sherlock blinked, then smiled at him, a look that sent warmth straight through John’s entire soaked body. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

John mirrored Sherlock’s earlier motion, reaching up and touching Sherlock's face. Warm, solid, alive. “I thought you were dead.” The words felt like a confession, a ridiculous notion now that the man stood before him.

Sherlock's smile vanished. “You... you did?”

John nodded. He could not decide what he was feeling. Joy, relief, and wonder surged through him. But at the same time, he was comprehending the reality of their situation. All this time, Sherlock had been _fine_ , sailing the seas and having adventures, and had he once thought of John? Had he even wanted to find him again?

Sherlock was alive, but John felt anger boiling up within him.

He pulled his hand back, noticing how Sherlock leaned forward slightly as if to follow the touch. “I thought you were dead,” he spat again.

“John, I can explain-”

“Don't.” John turned away. “Not now. I have men to see to.”

He strode away toward the prow, to his men, who watched him with utter incredulity. All were disheveled and exhausted, all wounded to some degree. Sholto seemed to be worst, and John felt all the breath leave his chest upon seeing him. A gash across the man’s back seeped scarlet blood into his shirt, and his arm laid against his chest at an unnatural angle.

“Where is the doctor?” John called. He did not care who helped him, not as James stood there, wounded and without a crew or ship for the second time in his life. So he lifted his head and met Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t know that he can get below on his own,” he said.

“Hooper!” Sherlock bellowed. “Get over here!”

A woman not much younger than Sherlock emerged from the pirates’ midst. She strode up to John and his small group, then bent over Sholto’s back.

“It is deep and long, sir,” she said. “But I will be able to heal it. If one of you can help me get him to the infirmary?”

They all hesitated, staring at John. None seemed eager to break off from the group. He nodded, and a deckhand broke away to sling one of Sholto’s arms over his own shoulders. Together, he and Molly helped him get below.

John heard Sherlock begin to address his crew, but he could not listen. His fists clenched at his sides. For so long, he had longed to hear that intense baritone again. So why was he feeling so upset now?

“Captain,” a man asked him. “What are we going to do here?”

“You can’t expect us to-” another began, but John lifted a hand to silence him.

“Listen to me. We are the guests of these sailors,” he said as he endeavoured to keep his voice calm and steady, despite the multiple emotions roiling within his stomach. “We are to treat them with respect. After all, they saved our lives.”

“They’re pirates,” the first man protested.

“They did not need to come to our aid,” John replied. “So. While we are aboard this vessel, we will keep a civil manner. Not a single incident is to occur against them. Not a look, or a word, or an action. This is their ship, and therefore they will receive our cooperation.”

“Sir-”

“But-”

“There are women aboard!”

“You can’t expect us-”

“What would you rather do?” John snapped, gesturing toward the wide open sea around them. The _Fusilier_ was barely visible now, most of it below the water’s surface, save for the tip of the foremast. John grimaced at the sight and turned away. “Your choices are to cooperate here, or swim to port!”

They appeared sufficiently chagrined at his raised voice. He eyed each man, then nodded. It would have to do; a grudging truce was better than none at all. Besides, their time aboard this ship would be temporary.

He spun on his heel. “I am going to see to Sholto. If Lieutenant Adler there or Captain Holmes requests anything of you, treat them as you would treat me.”

He stepped away and noticed Irene addressing several of her pirates. He suspected, from the way she gestured, adamant, that she was giving them much the same lecture about keeping the peace that he just had.

“Irene,” he said when she finished.

“Watson,” she joined him. “Are your men well?”

“Well as can be, given the circumstances. Listen,” he held her gaze. “Thank you. Your crew saved our lives.”

She squeezed his hand. “It’s good to see you.”

He smiled and shuffled his feet a bit. These were even stranger circumstances than the last time they had met. “If there’s anything you need us to do, please let us know. I told them to follow your orders.”

She nodded. “Thank you. We will do our best to get you safely to port. I think we may have to stretch rations a bit to do so, and your men will have to sleep on the deck instead of the crew’s quarters, but-”

“That is perfectly alright,” John interrupted. “We can cope with that. I am only glad we survived. For a few minutes, I was sure we would all perish.”

She pressed her lips together, a flash of sympathy softening the skin around her eyes. “I am so sorry about the rest of your men, and your ship.”

He nodded. “As am I.”

They fell silent for a beat, then she patted his arm and moved away. “Go see to your man in the infirmary,” she instructed. “I can handle your boys here if they stir up a fuss.”

His lips twitched. “Of that I have no doubt.”

She grinned back. "Welcome aboard the _Zephyrus_ , John."

 

* * *

 

James Sholto sat in the infirmary, arms crossed and eyeing Hooper wearily. When John entered, both heads turned toward him.

“Captain, thank goodness,” the former said. “Would you help me here?”

John ignored him for the moment, instead turning to the woman. “You’re the doctor?”

She nodded and held out her hand. “Molly Hooper, sir.”

“Good to meet you, Doctor Hooper.” He eyed the infirmary. Neat, organized, and rather well-stocked. John nodded. “Impressive set-up you have here.”

“Captain Holmes is quite good at getting me what I need,” she smiled. She seemed almost too young to be a ship’s doctor, perhaps four and twenty, but he truly could not judge, having not yet seen her at work.

“John.” Sholto’s arms were still crossed.

He sighed and turned to his first mate. “James, they saved our lives. And Miss Hooper is trying to help you.”

“She’s a pirate. I’d rather it were you.”

John’s jaw clenched. However, Sholto was still covered in blood, and he did not want to argue the point when he could be tending to his injury. “Fine.”

He entered the room further and looked guiltily at Molly, though she did not appear surprised at the reception. Instead, she handed him a needle and thread.

“What did you use to clean it?” John asked. He had found that wounds healed better when they and the tools used to treat them were wiped or heated. It seemed Hooper had had the same experience.

“Alcohol,” she replied. “The crew wasn’t too happy at first that I used some of it for this, but once I explained, they’ve taken to setting at least a bottle aside. It’s maybe a bit silly, but it seems to help.”

John nodded. “Have you got any of it here now?”

She went over to a shelf and plucked up a bottle. He took it from her and uncorked it, dredging a cloth with it.

“This will sting,” he told James, then pressed the cloth to his wound.

Sholto hissed in a breath and bared his teeth. “Damn!”

“Sorry,” John apologized, somewhat insincerely. It had to be done, after all. He wiped the dried blood away, then set to sewing up the injury. His needlework was still rudimentary, but functional. Once finished, he snipped the excess thread, sat back, and handed the needle to Molly.

“You’re to rest now, James,” he said sternly. “We’re guests here, so anything Doctor Hooper, Lieutenant Adler, or Captain Holmes say is as an order from me. Is that clear?”

James gazed at him, pain and confusion making his eyes shine. “How do you know these people?”

John did not reply. “I said, is that clear?”

Sholto held his gaze for a moment, then his shoulders sagged. “Yes.”

“Good.” John stood and addressed Molly. “Is there anything else we need to do for him?”

She shook her mousy head. “Not at the moment, but you are correct in that he needs rest. All your men likely do. If it is alright with you, Captain, I will go topside and see if any of them need medical attention.”

He smiled, grateful. “I think many of them do. Scratches, bullet grazes, that sort of thing. Victor Trevor as well. Thank you.”

She inclined her head in farewell, then made to leave. Before she got far, however, she paused and turned back. “What about you?” she nodded at his arm.

He had forgotten about the place on his arm where a bullet, or perhaps a harpoon, had cut a gash. It had stopped bleeding, and as he touched it he found it was not overly deep.

“Oh. No, Doctor, I can tend to it. But thank you.”

“Alright.” She gave him a polite smile and left.

John glanced back around to find Sholto staring at him.

“We’re really going to be civil about this? We’re on a pirate ship!”

John sighed. He stepped over to retrieve the alcohol and a clean cloth. “James, if I had not been civil, or at least not violent, last time I was aboard a pirate ship, I would not be alive today.”

“But you clearly know these people. Is this the same ship?”

John’s lips tightened as he wiped at the dried blood on his arm. “It is not. But I do know these people, so trust me when I say that they are… good people. Honourable.”

“Pirates, honourable?” James raised his eyebrows.

“It sounds mad, I know. But give them a chance. Perhaps you will be surprised.”

Movement in his peripheral vision made John turn. Sherlock stood there, leaning on the doorframe and looking decidedly uncertain as to how he had ended up there. He stared at John, then at Sholto, then back again, eyes a bit wider than usual.

“Can I help you with something, Captain?” John asked through gritted teeth as some of his earlier feelings of anger and betrayal returned.

“Yes, in fact,” Sherlock said. His eyes—so cerulean at the moment—seared John. “We need to speak in private.”

John raised his eyebrows. “And why should I agree?”

Sherlock scowled. “Because as you said to your own men, you are a guest here. Thus, you are beholden to me. Let us speak, Captain, alone.”

John hesitated for another second, and then Sherlock spoke again. “Please, John.”

That did it. John huffed and straightened. “Fine.”

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped in relief, but John continued. “In the morning. I’m going to check on my men.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked as John set down the cloth and alcohol and stepped past him. He stopped and glanced back.

“Are you going to be alright here tonight, James?”

Sholto nodded, though his eyes were fixed on Sherlock. “I’ll be fine.”

“Alright. Goodnight.” He spared a brief glance at Sherlock, then left without another word.

He did not fail to notice, however, how Sherlock looked up at the last moment, watching John go with a soft, longing expression on his angular face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tons of fun in the next chapter! Maybe even some smoochin' if John stops being an idiot ;) 
> 
> *exits, pursued by a sea dragon*


	8. Zephyrus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serious matters are discussed, and John has an epiphany. And perhaps some cuddles happen.

John and Sherlock did not, in fact, speak the next morning.

It seemed Sherlock was actively avoiding John, which almost perplexed him. He knew Sherlock could easily have cornered him somewhere on the ship at any time, and had seemed willing to do so the previous night. But perhaps the pirate captain kept his distance to give John space to calm himself. John was not sure.

He did not mind, however. His emotions were confused and jumbled and baffling. Part of him wanted to rush to Sherlock and hold him until every bad feeling faded, but another part wanted to shake the man and demand why he had not come looking for John. And to demand why he had been so content to let John think him _dead_.

There was plenty to do on the _Zephyrus_ , however. John helped Molly treat his men, who were stubbornly avoiding contact with pirates whenever possible. Though he would have preferred genial cooperation, John found himself content with their isolationist choice, as it lessened the chance for confrontations or fights.

Unfortunately, with ten more men on board, the _Zephyrus_ ’ stores would be strained quite severely. Sherlock and Irene declared that morning that it was to be half rations for all save the wounded, until they arrived at port. John’s men grumbled about this amongst themselves, but only until he gave them a stern look.

The rest of the day John occupied himself with checking on Sholto, watching Sherlock give him a wide berth, and reuniting with Winter, Wiggins, Kate, and Ekene. The latter in particular had been overjoyed to see him, and John had spent many hours fumbling through signs and laughing with the man. It seemed his old friends had recovered well from the destruction of the _Sea Dragon_ , and despite John’s less-than-genial feelings toward the captain, those emotions did not extend to his crew.

At one point in the afternoon, while John sat with Winter and Ekene, exchanging seafaring stories, Irene had found him and taken him aside.

“Why are you and Sherlock avoiding one another like the plague?” she had asked without preamble.

He had shifted, uncomfortable. “I…”

“Talk to him,” she commanded, arms crossed. “You owe him.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How so?”

“He saved your life,” she snapped. “It was his decision to stay back and help your crew. We could have given chase, but instead he ordered us to drop the longboats and fish you lot out of the water. So. Talk to him.”

She had stalked away then, leaving John staring after her with indecision running through his veins.

Night fell now. His men, though shaken and injured, were well on the way to recovery, for which John was thankful. He stood halfway down the starboard railing, alone for the first moments all day. Glad of the quiet, he sighed and glanced back across the deck to make sure he was truly alone. The only people visible were someone John didn’t know at the wheel, James Sholto—bandaged but mobile again near the bow—and Victor Trevor crossing the deck toward him.

Distracted, John watched as Victor reached James, who turned to greet him. They smiled at each other, then, to John's surprise, they began to speak. Sholto rubbed at the back of his neck, a sure sign to John that he was self-conscious. But whatever he said made Victor burst out laughing, the sound pealing across the waves, full of happiness. John felt his own lips quirk upwards; he had not yet heard the man laugh, and was glad to now, after all the man had been through. Sholto smiled at Victor, and even from a distance, John could see the softness in his eyes.

“John?”

He turned. Sherlock stood there, practically glowing under the moonlight. He cocked his head at the space next to John. He still wore the blue headscarf across his forehead, and John wondered at the reason. He’d thought Sherlock loved his curls; why keep them pushed down?

“May I?” he asked, shifting from foot to foot.

John nodded. Sherlock leaned heavily back against the wood, gazing over at Sholto and Victor. Now, they were standing, conversing in low tones and tentative smiles, their hands brushing on the railing. Victor watched Sholto, staring as though the latter had hung the moon in the sky.

“Surprising,” John commented of the two.

Sherlock smirked. “Not so much, in my estimation. Your lieutenant seems a sensible sort, which will be good for Victor, who was always a bit impulsive and energetic. Furthermore, they have both lost their ships, are both drifting. They will need someone else who understands what that is like. Though I confess myself surprised at Victor. His first love was always the sea.” Sherlock regarded John as he finished, hands in his pockets and a hopeful glint in his eyes. John merely nodded, and they fell silent.

Yet the pirate’s presence seemed to crawl all over John. All day, try as he might, he had been unable to keep his eyes off Sherlock. Whenever they had both been on the deck, his eyes had followed Sherlock, hyper-aware of his presence as he had pulled on the lines or manned the helm or bent over the maps with Ekene. Time after time John had almost gone to him. Now, though, he looked resolutely forward. He feared if he turned to Sherlock, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from seizing him and kissing him until his hard feelings melted away.

He inhaled slowly. “How have you been?”

Sherlock shifted. “I’ve been well.” He sounded uncertain.

“Have you.” John felt his fists tighten at his sides.

“John-”

“I’m glad. Since the alternative was sitting at the bottom of the sea.”

Sherlock huffed. “I would have thought that after a full day, you would have been more open to explaining why you are so inexplicably angry about this.”

“I’m not angry,” John said, too quickly.

“Of course not,” Sherlock’s voice dripped mockery. “You only seemed rather annoyed yesterday upon seeing that I am, in fact, alive. Silly me, I must have been wrong. You are clearly delighted to see me.”

John whirled on him. “Fine! Yes, I am upset!”

“Why?” Sherlock cried.

“Two years,” John snapped. “I've spent over two years thinking you were dead.”

“And you are upset about that?” Sherlock exclaimed. “Do you _want_ me to be dead?”

John clenched his jaw. “Of course not.”

“Then why are you so upset?” Sherlock frowned, and he scanned up and down John’s body, obviously deducing. He bit his lip. “Is this about the Dutch ship still? Is that the real reason you are angry?”

“No, no, Sherlock,” John said quickly. “Not that. That stopped mattering to me long ago. You probably made the correct decision in that case, as far as I can figure.”

“Then what is it?” Sherlock demanded. His voice was sharp, but something in the brightness of his eyes and the tightness of his mouth betrayed the hurt he attempted to hide. “Talk to me, John. I have been waiting three years to speak with you again.”

“That’s just it!” John burst out. “It’s been three years! I thought you were dead, but you had no such ideas about me! How long would you have not sought me out? What if you hadn’t happened across us yesterday? Would I have _ever_ learned you were alive?”

“I told you, I didn’t know you thought me dead!” Sherlock cried.

John waved that away. “Did you even _try_ to find out if I survived my injury? Did… did you even care?”

Sherlock’s lips formed a thin line, and when he replied, his voice was brittle. “Do not insult me, John. Of course I cared. We were back in Lisbon barely six weeks later, and the first thing I did upon arrival was try to go to the surgeon who had treated you. But at the time, the harbour guards were watching for pirates, and we had to be careful. I ended up unable to see the surgeon. Then, Wiggins got spotted by the guards while meeting with one of our contacts stationed in the city, listening for rumors about the NOTP, and we had to leave immediately. We have not been back there since. But I have never forgotten you, John,” he said. “I long hoped to be able to find news of you, perhaps in England or through my brother. But when our ship was wrecked, such hopes were dashed.”

John was starting to feel he might have been irrational. He groped frantically for a straw to grasp. “You… you could have left a letter somewhere. It feels as if… you gave up so easily.”

“That is not the case,” Sherlock insisted, low and fervent.

“Then what is the case?” John pressed.

Sherlock swallowed. They studied each other for several long moments, until the silence stretched between them for miles, cloying and intense. When Sherlock at last resumed speaking, his voice was lower and softer than it had been the entire argument.

“I was worried,” Sherlock said, and the admission sounded as though it tasted of acid on the pirate's tongue. “I feared that in the intervening time you had decided you didn't want this life after all. You came to be on my ship by happenstance and misfortune. Had you come on board willingly, I might have thought differently of finding you again, but as it stands…” he ran his fingers through his hair. “As it stands I essentially kidnapped you. You were not on the _Sea Dragon_ by choice. So when I left you in Portugal, I thought you would return to your senses. Decide that you didn't want to lead a... pirate's life.”

 _And decide you didn't want me._ The words were unspoken but somehow still audible, resounding in the air around them.

John stared. Realization washed over him, more chilling than an ocean wave. Sherlock had been _scared_ , scared of finding John and learning he no longer wanted Sherlock or the life they had started building together. The pirate captain, so wise and observant about many things, was so untested in matters of the heart. No wonder he had balked at continuing the search for John; he had never had anyone care for him like that before. Before John, his life had been driven by revenge. He had trusted in his mind to show him the way, so when faced with trusting his heart—and trusting John’s heart—of course he had retreated.

 _The heart of this pirate, this man, is so fragile,_ John thought. _Well, Watson, what are you waiting for? Get the hell on with it. Take care of him._

He did not allow himself to hesitate. He simply moved forward into Sherlock’s space, slipped his hand to the back of the pirate’s neck, and tugged him down. Their lips met in a hungry kiss, a little uncoordinated and messy, their noses bumping and tongues tangling without finesse. Sherlock let out a small gasp of surprise but kissed back without hesitation, his hands reaching out to grasp whatever parts of John he could reach.

They broke apart sooner than either really wanted to, panting rapidly against each other’s necks and smiling. John’s heart was pounding, and he thought his hands might have become permanently attached to Sherlock.

“Of course I want this,” John whispered harshly. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve thought of you all the time, even when I tried not to.” He kissed him again, hard and almost bruising. “And God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said, during the storm and yesterday and just now… You just, sometimes you make it so difficult to think straight. But know this, Sherlock Holmes—I want this life with you. I’ve not changed my mind about that in three years, so I hardly think ever I’m likely to. Alright? I want you.”

He crashed their mouths back together once again, hands tugging and pulling and gripping every bit of Sherlock that was in reach. Finally they stopped, their foreheads pressed together and eyes closed as they breathed themselves back to calm.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was wavering, and when their eyes opened, his were glistening with mingled delight and almost-disbelieving amazement. His chest heaved. He trembled slightly, and John shifted closer.

“You alright?” John teased with a soft kiss to the man’s cheek.

Sherlock blinked, that mischievous glint returning to his eyes despite his laboured breaths. “I’m fine.”

John beamed at him, and kissed him again; he could not resist. Sherlock’s hand at his jaw tilted his head up to alter the angle. His tongue pressed against John’s, and John groaned softly.

“Ahem,” a voice coughed, with no small amount of amusement.

Reluctant, John broke the kiss and turned his head. Irene stood there, a smirk on her red lips, which shone in the moonlight.

“What the _hell_ do you want, Irene?” Sherlock growled. His voice was gravelly and almost indecently low. John shivered, and Sherlock flicked an amused glance at him, as if he knew precisely the effect he had just had on John.

“John, some of your men have been asking about where we will be making port…” She still had that playful, teasing look on her face.

“You know perfectly well we are making for Jakarta!” Sherlock snapped. “Now leave us be, Irene, unless the world is coming to an end!”

He yanked John away from her and her soft laughter around to the foremast. They settled against it, wrapped up close.

“Interfering woman,” Sherlock muttered. “She just delighted in seeing us squirm. She will likely tease us to no end about this.”

John giggled at the petulant look on Sherlock’s face, and soon Sherlock’s put-out expression faded until they both were shaking with mirth. John felt buoyant, as if nothing could go wrong. Sherlock was here, in his arms, and they were alright.

“So what happened?” John asked once they had quieted. His hands stroked slowly up and down Sherlock's sides. “To the _Sea Dragon?_ ”

Sherlock's expression fell. “We were ambushed. It was the middle of the night without a moon, so they surprised us. By the time we mustered our weapons, she'd been so badly injured by their cannonfire, it was too late.”

“Who?” John asked. “Who did this?”

“The NOTP,” Sherlock breathed. He did not continue, but John believed him anyway.

“Oh, Sherlock…” John pulled him closer, and Sherlock reached up to place his hands on John's back.

“We had to dive into the water,” he continued. “Some of us did not survive, but some of us made it to Wales.”

“I was there,” John said. “Or at least, nearby. It's how I found out. I saw the wreckage while on holiday.”

Sherlock smiled, a twisted smile with more pain than mirth. “Not the most relaxing holiday, then.”

“Not at all.”

Sherlock kissed him again, soft and warm. “I am sorry.”

“I know. But you are the one whose ship was destroyed.”

Sherlock sighed, leaning into John's touch. His gaze shifted to the ship, and his hand moved to the mast next to them. “I sometimes feel I should have gone down with her. I failed her…”

“No, no,” John brushed a thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone. “Don't talk like that. This was not your doing. Besides, your life is not worth sacrificing for a ship. I know losing the _Sea Dragon_ was terrible, but given a choice, I'd choose you over the ship any time.

“Besides,” John let his fingers trail along the headscarf's soft tie, which dangled just behind Sherlock's ear. “If you'd gone down with the ship, we'd not be here.”

Sherlock's lips twitched. “True.”

That, however, brought another question to John’s lips. “Sherlock… why did you come to our aid? You did not know us, and that ship was still there waiting for any excuse to use their weapons. It was a risk you took, to approach us. Why did you do it?”

“You are basing your question off how you saw me react to that Dutch ship,” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. He had shifted around to lean his body weight against the mast, though his hands continued to wander up and down John’s arms. “But it has been three years since that scene. I have never forgotten how you reacted, and I wish I had perhaps changed course. Not in the midst of that storm,” he rushed on when John opened his mouth. “But sent longboats after, sought any survivors. Yet I did not.” He shook his head, scowling. “It did not feel right with me. Which I imagine is partially your fault,” he shot John a faux-severe glance. “And when I saw your ship sinking… I don’t know.”

He did not elaborate, but John did not need him to. Sherlock had been trying to redeem himself, even if it were not truly so necessary. Sherlock had been prioritizing his own crew in the situation with the Dutch ship, nothing more.

“Well,” John said. “Whatever your reasoning, I am glad you made that choice.”

Sherlock smiled. “As am I.”

“So what about her?” John jerked his head at the mast of the _Zephyrus_. “How did you get her? And why vanish after the wreck? Even Mycroft had not heard from you.”

“You spoke to Mycroft?” Sherlock's eyes flew wide. “My condolences.”

John chuckled. “He found me in London. He actually seemed concerned about you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He's only concerned with what information I can give him about the Programme.”

John was skeptical, but he chose not to press the issue. “Does he know, now? That you are alive? Could he have told me?”

“Doubtful. I only left a letter with a trusted contact in the Cape three months ago. I felt it was valuable to remain 'dead' as long as possible lest the NOTP hear of my survival. However, I needed information from him. I do wish I had seen his reaction when he read it, though…”

He looked disappointed, in the way only younger siblings can when they miss a chance for a prank. John grinned.

“Does he know about the _Zephyrus_?” he asked, resuming his rubbing of Sherlock's sides.

“No, I made no mention in case of interception.” He patted the mast. “I want to do a better job protecting her than I did with the _Sea Dragon._  I bought this ship partially made. A shipbuilder in Ireland was destitute, desperate. We had enough pilfered coin and goods to fund the rest of the construction. She is small, only needs a crew of twenty or so. However, I have organized it so if needed, it can be run with only a handful.”

“What of your things?" John asked. “Your tools, your skull?”

Sherlock's eyes crinkled at the corners. “You remember the skull?”

“Of course I do,” John giggled. “How could I forget?”

“Well, you'll be pleased to know it was one of the few things we found. Before we left Wales, some of our things washed up.”

“I know. I found your flag.” John shook his head. “To think we were so close to one another, all that time ago…”

Sherlock kissed him again, cupping his cheek. “We are together here, now. Now come, my darling, to my cabin.”

“Are you propositioning something indecent, Captain Holmes?” John grinned. They made their way below-decks, hand in hand.

“Perhaps I am, Captain Watson,” Sherlock teased, and John shivered in anticipation at the implication.

In the cabin, John was pleasantly surprised to see how similar the contents were to Sherlock’s cabin on the _Sea Dragon_. The skull had indeed made it onto the _Zephyrus_ , and the detritus of Sherlock’s notes, equipment, and strange objects were strewn in a rather pleasing clutter. The sort of mess that felt deliberate.

“Feels like home,” John admitted as he ran his fingers over the skull. Sherlock blinked, then smiled shyly.

“It could be,” he offered, arms extended toward John slightly. John went, sensing his need and allowing Sherlock to wrap himself around him. “If you wanted.”

John smiled, cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder. He tilted his head up and placed his hand at the back of Sherlock’s head. “Come here, you.”

And he tugged him down into another kiss. Sherlock hummed in pleasure against his lips and pulled him even closer.

John turned them sharply, eliciting a surprised noise from Sherlock, who seemed pleased John was taking charge. He guided Sherlock toward the bed, but before they reached their destination, Sherlock staggered. He broke off the kiss and caught himself on the bedpost, breath catching.

“Are you alright?” John asked, startled. He helped Sherlock sit on the edge of the bed. “Sherlock?”

“Sorry,” Sherlock sounded miserable, distressed. He buried his face in his hands.

“No, no, it’s alright,” John soothed, squeezing his hand. “What happened? Was that too much? Too fast?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, it’s fine.” He raised his head, grabbed John, and determinedly pressed their mouths together once more. Although still baffled, John kissed back.

When Sherlock moved to stand again, perhaps to climb into bed properly, John’s confusion and concern doubled. For Sherlock gave a soft gasp and collapsed.

“Sherlock!” John barely caught the man around the waist. “Sherlock, what-?”

But he was unconscious. John didn’t understand; he had been fine, mostly, moments ago.

He lowered the prone pirate to the bed and raced out of the cabin. He made it to the infirmary in mere instants, bursting in to find Molly changing Sholto’s bandages.

“Molly, come quickly. It’s Sherlock, he… he just collapsed.”

Her eyes widened and she nodded. John dashed back to the cabin as she finished tying off the bandage, and perched next to Sherlock.

“Come on, dearest, wake up,” he murmured, his lips against Sherlock’s temple. His heart pounded. What if something were really wrong?

Molly arrived, a frown on her face. “What happened, Captain Watson?”

“He... “ John gestured. “He collapsed. Fainted.”

“What was he doing?” she asked.

John felt blood rush to his face. “Erm… Nothing _overly_ strenuous.”

She raised her eyebrows, fixing a steely gaze on him. “Help me roll him over,” she instructed, and together they turned him onto his back.

John pressed his fingers to Sherlock’s wrist and breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the pulse beneath the skin. “Heartbeat is strong,” he reported.

“Breathing?” she asked as she examined under his eyelids.

“Steady. Though a little shallow.”

She nodded, the crease still present in her brow. “So he just collapsed suddenly?”

The blush was back. “Well, he and I were… er…”

She rolled her eyes. “I can surmise. You were leading him to the bed, and he fainted?”

“I suppose.”

“And he seemed normal before that?”

John inclined his head. Molly still looked a bit flummoxed, but a seed of an idea had entered John’s brain. His medical training may not be official, but in the past two years he had spent all the time he could with Hayes on the _Fusilier_ , learning. And experience at sea was at least as valuable as a university education. “What about food? Has he eaten today?”

Molly bit her lip. “Not that I’m aware of. Why?”

But John was staring at Sherlock again, lost in thought. He had heard of people, when they had not eaten sufficient amounts, swooning in this manner. But why would Sherlock starve himself in such a way? When John had known him, Sherlock had not eaten _much_ , but he had eaten regularly. He had mentioned to John that unless work was particularly demanding, he understood food to be a necessity. Otherwise, it was boring and slowed him down.

“What about water?” he pressed. “Has he had anything to drink that you’ve seen?”

Molly shrugged, eyes wide in apology. John sighed and asked her to fetch a bowl of water and a clean cloth from the infirmary.

While she was gone, John stripped off Sherlock’s shirt and headscarf. Best to keep him cool, comfortable, and able to breathe easily. A jolt went through John at the sight of so much of Sherlock’s body revealed. He looked thin, too thin. And a narrow, ropy scar crossed the right side of his head, from his hairline to just above his brow. Another scar rested over his collarbone and continued for several inches, curving into the dip in the center of his chest.

Molly returned in record time, with the bowl of water as well as a ration of biscuits, salted pork, and water. She faltered at the look on John’s face, which he was certain was frozen in a mask of shock.

“What’s wrong?”

He shook himself, barely managing to tear his eyes off the scars to look at her. “Hunger,” he explained with a half-shrug. “He's weak and the fact that I doubt he’s been eating enough, combined with lack of water, has made his weakness worse. He should wake soon, but he'll need to rest.” He let out a slow breath as he gazed down at the pirate captain, who had begun to stir. “The sooner we make port, the better.”

With a word of thanks, he took the water from Molly and set to daubing Sherlock’s forehead with it. The swoon had drained his face of the slight color he had… well, worked up, and he now looked deathly white in the dim light. Were he not stirring, more strongly now, he could have been a corpse.

“Sherlock?” John asked as the man shifted again. He stroked his arm while Molly continued the ministrations. “Can you hear me?”

He groaned, and his eyes flickered open. “What... what happened?”

“You collapsed. You need water and food and rest.”

“No,” Sherlock protested. He tried to swing his legs around to stand, but John moved forward and pressed his shoulders so he could not move. Sherlock gave a sharp look, but blinked when he realized who was above him. “John.”

Molly shooed John away before he could say anything, however. “Drink this,” she ordered as she helped him sit up enough to reach the cup.

“Water?” He raised his eyebrows. “Molly, we're still days from port. We need to ration it.”

“You need it more than we need to ration it,” she insisted.

He huffed and sipped it, then settled back. John frowned; Sherlock must feel poorly if he had decided to stop trying to get up.

“What is that?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the ration in Molly's hands.

Molly and John exchanged an unamused glance. “I'm not surprised you don't recognize it,” John said in a flat voice. “Since it seems you haven't been eating.”

“I have,” Sherlock replied, defensively.

John crossed her arms. “How much? Half rations as ordered, right?”

He avoided both their gazes. John opened his mouth to speak, but Molly beat him to it.

“How much, Sherlock? One half? Less?”

“One quarter,” Sherlock admitted. He still didn't look at either of them.  

“Quarter?” John cried. “Why? Are you mad?”

He fixed them with a tense stare. “There are wounded on board. They need the food more than I.”

“ _You_ are unwell now!” John growled.

“I'm fine!” Sherlock barked back.

“Eat,” Molly commanded.

“I don’t like those biscuits,” Sherlock eyed the bready discs with a dubious air.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, getting right in his face. Expression startled, Sherlock leaned back. “This may be your ship, but Molly and I are trained in medicine. Our educations may be informal and unconventional, at least in my case, but we are the best you have. In medical situations, she and I are in charge. So eat the food. You need the nutrition just as you need the water. No arguments.”

Suitably chastised, Sherlock ducked his head and took a bite, not saying a word. He nodded, satisfied, then turned.

“Sorry about that,” he addressed Molly, feeling self-conscious now. “Would you like to stay and keep an eye on him?”

She shook her head, then a slight smirk played on her face. “Oh, I think you can handle it. Just make sure he does not engage in any… strenuous activity tonight, Captain Watson. Though I think had your life gone another way, we’d be calling you ‘Doctor.’ ”

John nodded, torn between mortified at his own role in Sherlock fainting and flattered by her last comment. “I’ll make sure he finishes the food.”

“Good.” Her gaze was softer, until she fixed Sherlock with a half-concerned, half-stern look. “Eat,” she ordered. Once he took another bite, she strode from the room.

John turned to him. “Where did you find her?” he asked.

“India, actually.” Sherlock’s cheeks were pinker now, which John took to be a good sign. “She was training to be a doctor there where she lived with a lover, named Tom, until it ended badly. We ran into one another and I offered her passage. She may be our doctor only temporarily, but we are glad to have her.” He cleared his throat, blushing harder. “So… You've changed,” he noted with raised eyebrows.

“It's been three years, plenty of time to learn not to tolerate ridiculousness,” John replied shortly. “Now, no talking until you've eaten more.”

Sherlock's cheeks turned slightly pinker, and a rather shy smile pulled at his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

They were silent for a few minutes, until John could not resist speaking again.

“So I guess I made you light-headed, hmm?” he smiled.

Sherlock’s cheeks were red now. “Shut up.”

John chuckled and brushed Sherlock’s curls back again, thumb brushing the scar he was studiously attempting not to think about. “Feeling better?”

“A bit.” Sherlock finished the biscuit and began on the salted pork. “I’m sorry. What you were doing before this… with the kissing and all… that was… good.”

His voice was small and still a bit weak, a bit bashful. John slipped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. “We’ll have plenty of time for more of that later.”

Sherlock leaned on his shoulder. “I hope so.”

“We will,” John assured him with a kiss to the top of his head.

They were silent for several minutes while Sherlock ate and drank. But John was thinking. Had Sherlock really put off eating just to ensure that John’s injured men got enough food? His heart seemed eager to pound out of his chest and make a home in Sherlock’s at the thought.

“What?” Sherlock asked. His head was still pillowed on John’s shoulder. “I can hear you thinking.”

“You really care,” he marveled. “About my wounded men.”

Sherlock shifted. “Well, yes. Though I had neglected to eat as much as I apparently should have days before that.”

“Why?” John frowned.

“I was chasing…” he sighed. “Never mind. I was busy working, alright?”

He still was slumped over on John, though the food was finished. Affection swelled in John, warm and gentle.

“Alright, dearest. Tell me later. For now, rest.”

He helped Sherlock under the blanket and handed him the cup. “You need to finish this.”

Sherlock sighed, but John just nudged him. “Please, Sherlock. Let me take care of you.”

The pirate hesitated, then sipped the water. John waited until he finished it entirely, then set the cup on the floor beside them. He twisted back around to look at Sherlock, whose eyelids were drooping. Not eating or drinking much for days had clearly weakened him. A twinge of guilt twisted something inside John; he should not have kissed him quite as much as he had. The lack of air had only made the man weaker. More than that, he should have _noticed_ Sherlock’s state.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured as he attempted to smooth down Sherlock’s chaotic curls, both in an attempt to comfort Sherlock and to alleviate some of his own guilt. “You need to rest.” Sherlock just gave a vaguely assenting hum.

He continued stroking Sherlock’s hair for several minutes, soaking in the sensation and the quiet that settled around them. The waves were rhythmic and steady beneath the ship, and for the first time since before the attack on the _Fusilier_ had begun, John felt at ease. He had the distinct impression that the man drifting to sleep in front of him had something to do with that feeling.

Once Sherlock’s breaths had evened out, John stood and made to leave. Immediately, he felt a hand grasp his sleeve.

“Stay.”

John gazed down at Sherlock, all weak-grip and sleepy-eyes, and smiled.

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

When John woke, it was still dark outside. He wondered what had awoken him, until a nudge at his side made him twist about to find Sherlock nuzzling into him.

“Are you alright?” John asked, voice husky.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Good morning.”

“It’s not morning yet,” John mock-reprimanded. “Let me go back to sleep.”

He could feel it as Sherlock smiled into his chest. “The sun will rise in one half-hour, give or take a few minutes. Not so early.”

“Sherlock,” John drew out the name as he settled deeper into the pillow. “I was nearly drowned and shot two days ago. I need rest.”

Sherlock stilled. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

John dozed for a while longer, but found he could not reach deep sleep again. He was too distracted by the soft stroking Sherlock had begun across his torso. Finally, as the sky was beginning to lighten, he rolled over again and faced the pirate.

“I should get up,” he murmured. “Find some new clothes.” He had removed his torn and filthy shirt the previous night, knowing it was likely a lost cause. The trousers he still wore were not much better. He sat up and stretched, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Sherlock’s fingers immediately landed on John’s now-visible shoulder, where his scar resided, brushing across its mottled surface. “Does it still hurt?”

John shook his head. “Rarely.”

“And your hand?”

“Impressed you remember the tremor.” John twisted about and slid his thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Not so much anymore, only when I am not active. Or at least, that was the case until yesterday when it stopped entirely.”

Sherlock smiled, pleased with himself. “Am I a good influence, John?”

“God no,” John chuckled. “You’re a horrible influence, you devilish pirate.”

Sherlock smirked, then shifted forward to press a gentle kiss to the exit wound on his back. “Well, to maintain that reputation, I do not believe you need any clothes at all, John. New or otherwise.” His hands wandered up and down John’s back, sides, chest.

John shivered and leaned into his touch, smiling. “Yes, I do.”

But Sherlock’s arms tightened and pulled him back into bed. John went willingly, giggling. “And you?” John asked. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough. I imagine you and Molly will make me eat full rations today.” His nose crinkled.

“As well we should,” John kissed the wrinkle, then pulled back to survey Sherlock’s face. His thumb traced over the scar above his brow. “Will you tell me about this, dearest?” he asked.

Sherlock had closed his eyes while John touched him, but now opened them again. “I got it when the _Sea Dragon_ went down,” he said and pointed at his collarbone. “This one too. I had fallen, and a harpoon flew straight over me. Caught me here, and forced my head to the side. Then it sliced me here.” With his finger, he mimicked a harpoon moving from his hairline down to his chest along with bumpy white scar tissue.

John’s heart seemed to stutter in his tightening chest. “Oh, Sherlock,” he breathed in a quavering voice. “You could have died.”

“I didn’t.”

“You still could have,” John surged forward and pressed a kiss to the scar on his face. He laid a series of quick kisses down it, then dropped to the one on his collarbone.

“John,” Sherlock lifted his chin. “It’s alright.”

He locked their lips together this time, and John moved close, desperate suddenly to feel Sherlock, his breath and heart and the very blood in his veins. Sherlock allowed him to arrange him in any way he chose, pliant and soft under his hands, but still kissing back with eagerness. After a moment, he broke away from John’s mouth to again turn his attention to the shoulder scar.

They at last slowed minutes later, curled close and breathing in unison. Sherlock nosed at his jaw, humming.

“Sorry,” John chuckled, calmer now. “I probably do not smell pleasant, with all the blood and seawater from yesterday.”

“Mostly the sea, and you,” Sherlock said, though his voice was muffled in the crook of John’s neck. “I don’t mind.”

He sat up and they smiled at one another for a moment. “If you want to clean yourself,” he continued, voice bright. “Let me show you something.”

He climbed out of bed, movements only a little clumsy despite his weakness. John followed, curious. On Sherlock’s desk, which John had only spared a cursory glance the night before, was the scattered detritus of genius. There were diagrams and maps, more detailed than John had ever seen, that he suspected were drawn by Sherlock himself. Another pile of papers were titled _Why Theories of Sea Monsters are Baseless, Lacking in Merit, and All-Around Ridiculous: A Monograph by Sherlock Holmes_.

“Here,” Sherlock pointed to a strange contraption made of metal, wood, and other bits John could not identify. “Once I get it working, it will be brilliant.”

“What… what is it?”

Sherlock beamed. “A water filtration system. It will remove most of the salt from seawater for better cleaning. I hope to someday get it to work well enough we can drink the water as well.”

John nudged at the apparatus, turning a wheel. “That’s remarkable.”

Sherlock looked smug, visibly preening a bit. “It’s not finished, unfortunately. But soon, I hope.”

John kissed him, briefly. “My genius pirate.” He turned back to the table, scanning the other parts of the collection with interest. “What’s this?”

He had found a series of scrawled notes on gunpowder, and the mechanics of cannons of varying sizes. John caught the words “disable,” “fire,” and “chain reaction” before Sherlock slid the paper out from under his hands.  
  
“That… is actually related to something we need to discuss,” he said. “In fact, I wish to consult Victor as well.”

John blinked. “Is this about the NOTP?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve a theory then?”

“Yes. Would you like to hear?” Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a smile.

“Oh God, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much actual plotty action in this one, but I hope the snogging and cuddles make up for it! :)


	9. Red Sails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are planned, revelations are revealed, and confessions are… _almost_ confessed.

After a quick meal—the entirety of which John required Sherlock to eat under strict supervision—and a search for clean clothing for John, he, Sherlock, and Victor Trevor convened in the captain’s cabin.

“What is this about, Sherl?” Victor asked with a yawn. It was still early, and they had found a bleary-eyed Victor in the galley next to Sholto, who appeared equally sleepy. John wondered if they had stayed awake through the night, talking. He also found himself biting back a laugh at the nickname. _Sherl_.

“Surely you know,” Sherlock smirked from his perch on the arm of John’s chair, blushing a little when he saw John’s amused face but resolutely not commenting on it. “We both have dedicated our lives to this cause. Though I confess myself at a loss as to where _you_ have been for the past few years.”

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” Victor said. “I nearly got caught by the EIC. My story for why I had joined them was a bit dodgy, and they noticed. So I had to go into hiding for a year or so. When I felt safe enough, I reached out to Mycroft.”

“What?” Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“Yes, he helped me rework an entirely new identity. I got back in, on a different ship, and they were none the wiser,” Victor grinned. “It’s such a large organization that it was—as Mycroft said—‘disappointingly simple to hide within their insipid ranks’ again.”

“He knew,” Sherlock said. “He knew _for years_ that you were alive, and did not tell me.”

“It was my idea, actually. I did not want to risk you by contacting you. I feared what would happen if such an organization as the East India Company learned who you were and what you were trying to do. It may not affect them directly, but they hate pirates with a notorious passion.”

“That was not the plan,” Sherlock protested. “When we started this, we promised not to go off on our own. You and I were in this together with Mycroft.”

“I know,” Victor sighed. “But you weren’t there, Sherlock. You didn’t see how they reacted when they suspected I wasn’t who I said I was. They threatened to kill me. I had to flee, to disappear.”

Sherlock stilled. “That’s why you stopped responding to my letters. You weren’t just out of contact, you vanished from _everyone’s_ sight.”

“Yes. If it hadn’t been for Mycroft, I’d still be in that situation. With the new identity, I was safe, but I still feared what would happen to you two if we were discovered. I felt it would be better not to share plans anymore. I’m sorry. A few years back, I stopped contacting even your brother.” Victor crossed his arms. “I was in so deep,  and I was so close to meeting some important NOTP representatives, I did not want to leave a trail that could lead back to either of you.”

“That would be around when I met you,” John said to Sherlock. “But why would Mycroft not tell you Victor was alive? He had no reason to keep that from you.”

The pirate captain shook his head. “On the contrary. My brother may irk me like no other, but he is useful at times, not to mention dedicated to our goals. Victor’s cover was paramount, and providing him with a better one appears to have been the best course for his investigation. It is a logical conclusion: The less we know about one another’s plans, the better off we would be in the event one of us is captured.”

“I truly am sorry, though,” Victor said. “If I had known you were unaware of my situation, I would have found a way to tell you.”

Sherlock regarded him flatly for a moment, but then inclined his head with a slight smile. “It’s alright, Victor. We’re both rather like ghosts by now. I myself did not tell Mycroft I was still alive for ages.”

Victor chuckled, and Sherlock smiled. John was glad to see they had resolved the tension. Then, he cleared his throat. “Shall we discuss… whatever we are here to discuss?” He exchanged a fond look with Sherlock, feeling affection surge up within him. Sherlock could have sat on the bed, but he had elected to sit here, so close to John.

“Well, of course,” Victor glanced between John and Sherlock, an eyebrow slightly lifted. “Is it to do with the _Spider_?”

John felt Sherlock stiffen next to him. “You know her name?”

“Of course. She’s the flagship, the pride and joy of the NOTP, according to my contacts. Other than the threat of being killed for being a spy, working for the East India Company has its perks,” he added to John. “They sometimes work with or hire NOTP ships, so I’ve got good information from my time with them.”

“But the _Spider_ ,” Sherlock snapped, ever impatient. “What did your contacts tell you she looks like?”

Victor frowned. “Well, that’s the odd thing. No one seems to know. No one I’ve spoken with seems to have ever seen her; they just know her by name.”

Sherlock looked triumphant. “As I suspected.”

“Why?” John asked, tilting his head up toward Sherlock. “What is special about this ship?”

“You do not remember?” Sherlock asked. “It is the ship that my father discovered was smuggling illegal opium.” His voice hardened. “It is the ship that destroyed his life.”

John reached up and squeezed Sherlock’s arm, then began to stroke up and down. His lover glanced down and his gaze softened slightly.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Victor said. “I wish I could tell you more. But what I do know is they don’t just smuggle opium. They also carry weapons, and occasionally kidnap people.” Victor grimaced, and John felt a jolt in his gut at the thought.

“So I have heard. But have you proof of this?” Sherlock asked sharply. “Have you witnessed these acts?”

“No, but I have heard firsthand-”

“That’s not good enough,” Sherlock sighed. “At least it would not be for Mycroft’s contacts. I received a missive from him six weeks ago-”

“Hang on,” Victor interrupted. “Sherl, since when are we doing this _through_ Mycroft? I thought the three of us were going to go directly to the NOTP’s superiors _together_ and destroy the _Spider_ ’s reputation. Then, the entire company’s reputation will have suffered a terrible blow. People would not want to hire them-”

“We can’t,” Sherlock said. His lips were twitching, his expression smug. “That may have been the plan years ago, Victor, but my plans have changed.”

“How so?”

“I have recently learned, from eyewitness reports from my contacts in ports all over the world, that the NOTP leadership and the crew of the _Spider_ are, in fact, one and the same.”

Victor’s mouth dropped open. John stared up at Sherlock, his hand stilling on the pirate’s arm. “ _What_?”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed with something between mischief and malice. “If we destroy the ship and its crew, the NOTP would likely crumble. No leaders, no corrupt operations.”

“Cut off the head of the beast, no beast,” John nodded, and Sherlock smiled at him.

“Precisely.” His hand covered John’s for a moment and squeezed.

“But how could we have missed that?” Victor exclaimed. He eyes were wide in astonishment and excitement. “Their records must be cleverly manipulated, and any people who interact with other organizations must be proxies of the _Spider_ crew!”

“It’s rather brilliant, yes,” Sherlock smirked. “There are at least two levels of deception, I think. The _Spider_ and other NOTP ships must bribe or manipulate certain representatives, feeding them false or incomplete reports. In turn, the representatives tell merchant companies, rich benefactors, and nobles all about their marvelous, non-corrupt, non-evil Programme. Ruthless and despicable, though I do love with when the criminals are clever. Much more fun,” he said with relish.

“Sherlock,” John chastised gently. He could not help but smile, though, at seeing the man so elated.

“So,” Sherlock clapped his hands together, ignoring John. “That begs the question. Where is the _Spider_ now?”

“Somehow, I have a feeling you’re about to tell us.” Victor sounded hopeful and fond.

Sherlock nodded with relish. “Mycroft’s missive included a rough description of the ship. It is large, bulky, equipped with at least four dozen cannons, and most notably has red sails.”

John gasped at the same moment Victor made an odd choking sound. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and brought his hand to the back of John’s neck, which he massaged soothingly. “What is it?”

“That’s the ship that attacked us, Sherlock,” he said. “We saw. But it had black sails unfurled.”

“But you saw red sails as well? You’re certain?”

“Absolutely,” John nodded. “Victor and I both saw.”

“Sherlock,” Victor said softly. “That’s also the ship that destroyed the EIC ship I traveled on. And James Sholto’s.”

“What?” John exclaimed. “How did you-?”

“We’ve… er, been talking,” Victor’s cheeks were suddenly red. “He told me about what happened before he came to your ship, Watson, and how he got the scars. He said the red sails were the only thing he really remembers about the ship.”

“He never told me that,” John murmured.

“Should he have?” Sherlock asked softly. He had a slight frown on his face, so John reached out and slid an arm around his waist.

“Perhaps not,” John said, giving him a look that said _let’s not get into that now_. “But there’s one thing I don’t understand. If the red sails are their signature, why did they not drop them when attacking us?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I suspect they only reveal the red sails toward the end, when there is no hope of any survivors. My arrival, in your case, interrupted them.”

“Why did they run?” John asked. “They’d already shown themselves more than capable of destroying a ship. So why flee from you?”

“Because I suspect they know I am after them,” Sherlock explained with a proud smile. “I have been chasing them ever since receiving their description. And if they don’t know of me by now, I’ve done a poor job intimidating them.”

“How did you find them, clever thing?” John asked, beaming at him.

Sherlock flushed a rather fetching pink. “I have contacts in most ports by now. Using their information, I’ve been able to piece together their usual route and schedule.”

“So we’re going after them, then?” Victor asked eagerly.

“Of course,” Sherlock declared. They grinned at one another, all of a sudden seeming ten years younger. John could imagine them as friends, just out of school, ready to take on the world. They would have been a rather striking pair, with their handsome faces and equally distinctive hair—Sherlock’s dark curls and Victor’s coppery locks. John would have felt a touch of jealousy, except that Sherlock’s thumb was still tracing slow circles on the back of his neck.

“There’s one matter I am unclear on,” John said, and felt both sets of eyes fix on him. “What are they doing? They’ve been running their operations for years, so why start attacking ships in the last few months? Especially allies— the EIC, even the bloody British Navy. What’s their goal?”

Sherlock turned that radiant smile on him, and John felt himself puff up a bit. “I believe,” Sherlock said. “They have dual goals. On one hand, they are seeking to become dominant in the ocean. With war with France likely to come soon, England will not soon have the resources or time to compete with them. And the EIC will be too occupied with making deals with both sides to worry about the NOTP. Therefore, now is the time to make their move.

“On the other hand, their attacks have shown a pattern. The attack on Sholto’s ship was the first. According to reports I received in the Cape, his crew witnessed the _Spider_ taking aboard a shipment of weapons they were not supposed to have. Thus, Sholto and his crew had to be eliminated. The _Spider_ did not, however, count on the captain surviving.”

“Hang on,” John said. “How did they find out he made it?”

“Like me, they have spies everywhere,” Sherlock said, waving a hand. “But it meant they discovered he joined the _Fusilier_ ’s crew. Thus, you became another target. As was Victor, as they had found out he was quite interested in their operations. It would not surprise me if they had a spy of their own on your old ship, Victor.”

“So...” Victor breathed. “It’s… it’s my fault the ship… the men…?”

His face was anguished, horrified. John could not imagine what he was feeling. Finding out you were the reason all the men you’d traveled the world with were dead would be devastating. John had enough guilt over his own crew, but to have been the _direct reason_ for the attack…

“I’m so sorry, Victor,” he murmured. The man had buried his face in his hands, and John glanced up at Sherlock.

“Victor,” he said. “You did not know you had been discovered. And we have the chance to do something now. You cannot bring those men back, but you can ensure they did not die for naught.”

“I know,” Victor mumbled.

“So the _Fusilier_ ?” John asked to take the focus off Victor for a moment. “They traced us because of James?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’m afraid so. But that puts us in a unique position. Not only do I know their route, leadership, and favourite ports, we now have a group of men together who have had dealings, so to speak, with the NOTP and have eyewitness proof of their crimes. Thus, we have a good chance of destroying them at last.”

“I’m in,” John said immediately. “Of course I am. I was in even before they destroyed my ship, but now…” He shook his head, and his voice turned into a growl. “I want to take those bastards down.”

“I’m in too,” Victor said. He raised his head to reveal reddened eyes but a determined countenance. “Let’s go get them.”

Sherlock’s grin could have lit up the sky.

 

* * *

 

 

The port at Jakarta was bustling and packed, still swarming with sailors and merchants even so late in the evening.

John watched the flurries of movement through his telescope with a sizable amount of apprehension. They were truly doing this. They were pursuing the _Spider_ , the ship that had torn apart Sherlock’s life, destroyed the _Fusilier,_ and changed both their lives.

They were still far out from port, and John glanced up toward the wheel, where Sherlock stood with Ekene, who guided the _Zephyrus_ toward land. Sherlock had his eyes fixed on their destination, his sharp gaze intense and focused. But then, he glanced down, spotted John, and winked at him. John smiled back.

Victor joined him at the railing, and together, they watched the port approach. John resumed his survey of the area, not sure what he was looking for but wanting to be prepared for anything.

“It’s hard to believe we were on your ship just a few days ago,” Victor murmured.

John swallowed and glanced at him. “Yes, it is.”

He had a feeling if he did not have a goal, something to drive him forward, he would have drowned in guilt and grief by now. So many men, dead under his command. If the Royal Navy found out, he would doubtless lose his title as Captain just as Sholto had. Of course, he mused, he had also allied himself with a pirate, so probably should have lost it years ago.

Regardless of his alliances, he had failed his crew. He had been their leader, and thus was responsible for their welfare. Yes, the _Spider_ ’s attack had been unrelenting, unfair, and unprovoked, but John should have prepared his men better. They had been complacent, so sure of themselves and sure they were alone on the ocean. And so their deaths were on John’s hands.

He would not let any more blood spill if he could prevent it, he vowed. Again, he glanced up at Sherlock, so tall and beautiful standing there. No, Sherlock would not be harmed if he could help it. Nor would any of the men and women on the _Zephyrus_. Not while John drew breath.

“So you and Sherlock…” Victor’s gently amused voice broke into John’s thoughts. He was smirking.

“Yes,” John smiled back.

“You are remarkable, Captain Watson,” Victor said. “You’ve captured the heart of Sherlock Holmes. I thought he was certainly meant to remain forever wed to his desire for adventure and revenge.”

John blushed. “He and I aren’t wed.”

“No, but he clearly adores you. I’ve never seen him look like that before, and I knew him when we were young and full of emotions. Back then, he always pushed them back, hid away from them in favor of logic. But with you, he lets them out. He seems… happy.”

“I hope he is,” John said.

Victor regarded him. “I think so. For whatever the thoughts of his old friend who hasn’t seen him in years counts for.”

“Plenty. He’s spoken fondly of you.”

They both turned to watch the pirate captain, who had lowered his own telescope and was now signing insistently to Ekene. Both men were frowning, looking concerned. John frowned and climbed the stairs to his level.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s there,” Sherlock said. His eyes were fixed forward. “The _Spider_ is there.”

“What?” John exclaimed, racing to Sherlock’s side. He pointed his own telescope toward Jakarta again, and Sherlock’s fingers guided it to the correct location. Indeed, the _Spider_ was moored, twin sets of sails rolled up. Still, a shudder passed through John at the sight, and Sherlock’s hand moved to his shoulder.

“What are we going to do?” John asked. “If her crew sees us-”

“We’re not making port yet,” Sherlock replied, even as his fingers flew to give instructions to Ekene. John marveled at his ability to literally speak in two languages at once. “We’re going to wait just out of sight until nightfall, then head in. John, any of your men who wish to find a different berth are welcome to depart. We will resupply and then leave as soon as we are able. I’d rather not be within sight of the port at dawn.”

“But what of the _Spider_?” Victor asked, joining them. “We are going after them—do we really need to hide? Why not just attack now?”

“We cannot launch an assault in the middle of a busy port. Who knows how many allies they have in this city?” Sherlock said. “No, we will wait until they leave, until they are at sea.”

His eyes flashed. “Oh!”

“What?” John asked.

He fixed a delighted, bright-eyed look at John, whose heart fluttered at the sight of Sherlock so excited. “I’ve a plan, once we slip into port.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment.” Ekene was asking Sherlock something, so the captain turned back to him, and they began to discuss.

John slipped back to the main deck and rounded up his men. Most of them, save Sholto, had made no effort to befriend the pirates, merely treating them with distant wariness. They spent most of their time, even during meals, up on deck amongst themselves. The pirates in turn had left them alone.

Now, John was grateful for it. The less interaction and the less the survivors of the _Fusilier_ knew about their plan, the better.

“Captain,” several greeted as he stood looking at them.

“Thank you, sailors,” he began. “For behaving in such a civil manner the past few days.”

“When are we making port?” Sholto asked.

“Tonight. There has been a… delay,” John hedged. “But once we arrive, you are free to go if you choose. Find passage home. I feel our obligations are for now null, as we have no ship. Returning to England is the best chance you will have to continue your lives.”

“What about you, sir?”

John swallowed. “I am remaining aboard. My reasons are my own.”

They exchanged glances and whispers, uncertain. John waited for the muttering to die down, then continued, “When you make it back to England, please, do not mention this ship.”

“Why?” one of the men, Maddox, asked. “They’re pirates.”

“Because,” John leaned in. “This ship is involved in treacherous business. If anyone in England, or Europe for that matter, heard that it exists, your own lives could be placed in jeopardy. The owners of the ship that destroyed the _Fusilier_ would have no qualms coming after you. They will kill you if they get the opportunity, so do not give it to them. Tell anyone who asks this: the _Fusilier_ was destroyed by a still-unidentified ship, and most of the crew perished. You were picked up by a merchant vessel and brought to land here. That is all you will say, because that is all you know. This is for your safety, as much as for the crew of this ship,” he gestured to the _Zephyrus_. “Understood?”

No one replied. He crossed his arms and held the gaze of each sailor in turn. “That is an order. Am I understood?”

One by one, they nodded with varying degrees of reluctance and skepticism. As John strode away—it was the best he could hope for, he figured—Sholto joined him.

“I will work to convince them further, John,” he murmured, a hand on his shoulder. “They will come around.”

“It’s for their own safety as much as our anonymity,” John muttered with a sigh. “Will you be departing with them?”

James reddened, glancing down. “I… I think I will stay, actually. Victor, ah, told me what is going on. How the _Spider_ is the ship that destroyed mine, and yours. I would like to see this through. They should answer for their crimes.”

John clapped him on the shoulder. “I am glad. We could use your combat abilities.”

“John!” Sherlock called. John’s head whipped around immediately at the sound of his voice and nodded, holding up a finger to indicate he needed a moment. Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to examining the port. However, a slight smile played on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and John found himself grinning. Next to John, Sholto chuckled.

“Am I to assume he is the reason you rejected my offer?” he asked. John eyed him, but there was no bitterness in his face or tone as he looked between Sherlock and John. Instead, there was only amusement and fondness.

“Erm…” John felt his cheeks heating.

“John,” Sholto laid a hand on his arm. “It’s alright. I”m happy you found him again. I personally find him rather haughty, but he seems to make you happy.”

John still blushed, but he smiled. “And you? I’ve noticed you’ve been spending some time with Vicor…”

This time, Sholto turned red, and John laughed. He squeezed Sholto’s shoulder, then joined Sherlock and interlocked their fingers.

“What is it?” he asked.

Sherlock’s grip on his hand tightened, though he did not shift his gaze from the port. “What is your history with Sholto?” he asked.

John raised his eyebrows. “Are you... jealous?”

Sherlock’s shoulder lifted, then fell. “Not precisely. Curious, yes.”

“We’re friends, that is all. Perhaps if I had not met you first, I’d have…” John cleared his throat. “But you’re rather diverting.”

“Even when I’m believed to be dead?” Sherlock said, smirking.

John laughed. “Even then.”

They smiled at each other for a long moment, and John felt a sudden sense of this being the calm before the storm. What they were about to do, attacking a massive enemy ship in the middle of the ocean with no help and less firepower, was the most dangerous act John had ever taken part in. Yet as he stood here with Sherlock, he saw a future, just for that one instant. If they survived this, they could sail like this, together, for the rest of their lives.

But not yet, he reminded himself. They had a job to do first.

“Just a few more hours, dearest,” he said.

Sherlock ducked his head, perhaps to hide the almost shy smile that appeared on his face then in response to the endearment. “John,” he murmured, shifting closer. John pulled him in, kissing his cheek. “Thank you. For helping.”

“It’s my fight too,” John said. He stroked a thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Are we prepared? It’ll be a difficult battle.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Yes. They’ll have more weapons.”

John was about to express his worry over that fact, but stopped. Something in Sherlock’s countenance told him that it related to the very idea the man had had. “What are you planning?” John asked again, with a squeeze to the man’s hips for emphasis.

Sherlock’s eyes were sparkling with green-blue excitement. “We have no chance to surviving, let alone succeeding in destroying them, if they can use their weapons.”

“Right,” John said. “But what can we do about it? We can’t exactly…”

He trailed off. No, he told himself. He wouldn’t. Even Sherlock was not that foolhardy. “Sherlock… what are you thinking?”

“I sabotage the cannons on board the _Spider_ , of course.” Sherlock stared at him, eyebrows slightly raised, as if he were slow to realize this.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s the only possible solution!”

“No,” John laughed helplessly. “No, it isn’t. It’s insane.”

“Why?” Sherlock snapped. He stepped back, frowning.

“They would kill you immediately.”

Sherlock eye-rolled aggressively. “Please. I would be disguised.”

John simply gaped. How could Sherlock suggest something so hazardous? This was the _Spider_ , the ship that had wantonly murdered dozens of men, perhaps more. That crew had been the cause of Sherlock’s parents’ deaths, as well as the deaths of John’s men, Sholto’s men, and Victor’s crewmates. The thought of stealing onto the _Spider_ for the express purpose of damaging the cannons was suicide.

“They would catch you,” John insisted. “You can’t do this. Besides, you need to rest! You’re weak and need to regain your strength-”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said shortly.

“No!” John cried. “No, you-”

“John!” Sherlock snapped. “The _Spider_ must be destroyed. We will destroy them, but we cannot do so with their cannons operational. Thus, they need to be sabotaged. I have the ability-”

“Wait,” John cut him off. “How can you possibly think to manage that?”

“I have been studying how cannons function, and I think I have developed a way to disable the firing mechanism. It’s complicated, you don’t need to know the details, as you would surely not understand-”

“Don’t patronize me,” John cried. “In spite of what you might think, I am not a fool. Which is why I am telling you this is foolish. We can find some other way to defeat them, that does not involve you risking your life!”

“What?” Sherlock shot back. “We have found them. The only way to do this is by sinking the damn thing.”

“Is it?” John growled. “What about diplomacy? Or your original plan, outing them to the authorities and getting them blacklisted, shamed, shunned?”

“They are kidnapping people, John. Kidnapping, murdering, smuggling illegal weapons. Not to mention trafficking opium, which is wreaking havoc on the world in its own way. Diplomacy, words, they are useless.”

“So your solution is to stoop to their methods?”

“There is a difference,” Sherlock replied. “They kill innocents. Destroying them would be the precise opposite.”

“Is it really worth your life?” John demanded.

Sherlock groaned in frustration, running his fingers through his hair and turning away. John, abruptly self-conscious, glanced around. Those nearest, including Irene, appeared to be studious in their efforts to not listen. Well, actually, Irene was not included in that group; her eavesdropping was rather blatant. He caught her eye, but she looked back in defiance, hands on her hips.

“John,” Sherlock said, drawing his gaze back. “What other option is there?”

“I could go in your stead,” he retorted, seizing on the first solution that came to him. “Or Victor, or Irene, or someone.”

“No,” Sherlock snorted. “They know what you and Victor look like. And I need Irene here, to ready our own crew.”

“You can do that yourself and send her instead!”

“And you think a woman will go unnoticed sneaking onto their ship and straight to their cannons? Even if she got aboard, they would surely not let her out of their sight. A large portion of the _Spider_ ’s crew are interested in women, and the others are tedious in their suspicions or prejudice against them. Besides…” his shoulders slumped, just a bit, just enough that John noticed. “I will not risk anyone else unduly. This is my fight more than anyone else’s.”

“Not more than mine.”

“We have already established the reasons you cannot go.”

“Dammit Sherlock,” John sighed. “You have to be the martyr, don’t you? Can’t you let me help you? I want to protect you. I couldn’t protect my crew, or myself. I’ve spent so long being helpless to what happens to me.”

Sherlock had stilled, listening with widening eyes. John continued, “I ended up on the _Sea Dragon_ by accident. I didn’t even know how to tend to wounds then. If not for you, helping me heal and training me and getting me to Lisbon, I’d have died. Then, through no significant skill on my part, I became captain, but I couldn’t even distinguish myself that way. And then days ago, yet again, you had to save me. Well, I’m tired of being saved. Let me save you.”

“I don’t need saving,” Sherlock growled. They regarded each other, the sounds of the waves against the boat serving as the only symphony to accompany their heartbeats. John could not read Sherlock’s expression. He only knew he could not let Sherlock be harmed. Not after everything the pirate had done for him, not after years of missing him.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. His voice was hard, cold. “I will not apologize for this, John,” he said. “It is decided; I will do this.” And he moved away.

“No,” John felt his heart begin to race. He couldn’t let him leave. He raced forward and grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “My dearest, you need to rest!”

“No!” Sherlock jerked away, shoulders hunched.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice came out all strangled. “I will not lose you again! We’ve only just found each other again, and… I can’t. I… I lo-”

It almost came out, before John clamped his lips tight shut. The emotions of the last few days, of losing his ship and finding Sherlock again and now facing the prospect of losing him, boiled up within him and nearly spilled out. Spilled out in the form of three words that would make this too sentimental, too intense, even when speaking of life and death. This was not the time for such a proclamation.

Yet Sherlock clearly sensed the unspoken words, hovering as mere air behind John’s lips. Breath, burdened with the terrible potential to become words it was not yet time to speak. John swallowed, staring at Sherlock. The tension brought to life between them by the argument fizzled into something else, as they both stood there frozen.

Then, John moved forward again, reaching out. This time, Sherlock allowed himself to be tugged forward, almost pressed flush against John. Their eyes met, then Sherlock's gaze flicked down to John's lips.

All at once, they were kissing. The contact was harsh, all tongues and teeth and gasps, so intense John let out a low groan. Sherlock pushed close, his hands clutching at John's shirt. Then, without warning, he jerked back.

“I have no intention of dying in this endeavor,” he whispered in a low rumble. “I intend to end this, once and for all.”

He pulled away and strode off.

 

* * *

 

An hour after sunset, Sherlock shouldered a bag containing the supplies he would need for his endeavour. He darted down the gangplank to the docks, which were now bathed in ever-lengthening shadows. The _Spider_ stood moored several hundred metres away from the _Zephyrus_ , no movement on the latter’s docks. Many people had gone to bed, but there were enough mingling sailors, merchants, and dock-workers for Sherlock to slip through the area unnoticed.

He sucked in a quick breath. Morning would come, and the _Spider_ would depart to make for its next stop in the Cape. And then the action would begin in earnest. His plan had been a good one, organized in parts over weeks with Irene and his crew. Now, supplemented by the knowledge brought by John, Victor, and Sholto, the full plan had fallen into place.

And Sherlock could finally, finally end this.

He could feel eyes on him, even as he moved farther and farther from his ship, his home. Someone watched, and he did not have to look back to know who it was.

_Let me save you… I can’t lose you again… I lo-_

Sherlock felt a shiver track up his spine. Those words, both said and unsaid, kept reverberating in his mind. John’s voice, full of desperation and worry and concern and affection, made him want to turn back. He nearly wanted to abandon this quest, and just let himself be held by the one man who had looked at Sherlock and seen someone extraordinary.

But no. Sherlock may have never had anyone feel such things toward him, but now was not the time to allow his emotions to torment him. He had a job to do.

More specifically, he had a fleet of cannons to sabotage, and perhaps—if circumstances favoured him—a certain captain to face.

He paused two ships away from the _Spider_ and pulled out a tiny book. It contained his notes on cannons, his plan spelled out in a few deceptively simple sentences and diagrams. In the margin, scrawled as a visceral reminder of his goal, was a name. He had heard it mentioned several times from his sources all over the world, always whispered, never spoken. It was as if the owner of the name could hear; perhaps—given his influence—he truly could, somehow.

Sherlock shook his head to shake off the fanciful thought. This was just a name of a mere man.

Moriarty, the paper said.

The captain of the _Spider_ and mastermind behind the NOTP. The man Sherlock was going to kill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting this one out much later than I wanted, but it's been busy 'round here! 
> 
> Almost done! I'm very excited for some of the things happening in the next chapter, and I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I!


	10. Center of the Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets the man he’s been chasing, and John takes a leap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I uploaded chapter 9, the date got messed up or something so it seemed to have posted weird. So I just want to make sure everyone saw that one before you read this one. Lots of things happened in 9, which you’ll need to know for 10 xo
> 
> Quick PSA. This chapter is a little more graphic than the others in terms of violence. I’d still call it PG-13 however, so I’ve left the official rating as it is. I just wanted people to be aware.

The _Zephyrus_ still stood moored, hidden as best as one could hide a pirate ship. The crew crouched along the railing, peering across the waves.

At the end of the port, moving away from them, sailed the _Spider_ , its black sails filled with wind, its red sails still rolled up. As the pirates watched, it slid away, eventually melding with the dark skies and disappearing.

“Alright!” Irene leaped to her feet, her hair flying. “Let’s go!”

The pirates launched into action. Some tied down lines or loosened them as needed, some were in the hold readying cannons, some were passing weapons to others. They were only two dozen, but every face was hard with determination. Orders were called out, feet thundered across the decks, and bodies flashed by. In the center of it all, midship, stood John. He watched the organized chaos with an appreciative glance, yet that admiration was tainted by his own worry.

“John,” Irene’s voice next to him made him jump. He spun on his heel to find her and Ekene watching him.

“What is it?” he asked.

Irene shot him an exasperated look. “Stop worrying. It’s still hours until dawn. Plenty of time for us to prepare everything.”

Ekene piped up, fingers insistent. “And the Captain is a capable man. He will be fine.”

John swallowed hard. “I hope so.”

Irene opened her mouth to speak further, but a hand on John’s shoulder distracted them all. John glanced around to come face to face with Maddox and the other survivors of the _Fusilier_.

“Maddox,” John nodded. “What is it?” Then, he did a double take. “Wait. What are you all-?”

He had been under the impression these men had disembarked at Jakarta to find new passages home to England. So why were they here? Moreover, what were they doing with weapons bristling and fists clenched?

“We took a vote, Captain,” Maddox said. “Some of the pirates told us what the plan is, that they’re after the bastards who sunk us. We want to help.”

John stammered. “You…?”

“The people on that ship killed our friends, our brothers-in-arms,” Maddox continued, tone gruff but insistent. “We can set aside our differences with… these people,” he gestured vaguely around him to indicate the pirates. “For that cause.”

“For our friends,” another man added, and they all nodded.

John felt speechless for a moment. Then he grinned. “Well, what are you waiting for? Report to Winter and Kate over there for your orders.”

They all hurried off, and John spun around to face his friends again. Ekene was beaming, and Irene looked impressed.

“A good stock of sailors you have, Watson,” she chuckled. “A little prejudiced, but brave.”

“And ten more fighters,” Ekene added.

John clapped him on the shoulder. His signs were still uncoordinated, but his words widened Ekene’s smile nonetheless. “Let’s take the _Spider_ down.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock crept around below-decks  of the _Spider_ on cat’s feet. The space was dark, no light at all coming from the portholes. So Sherlock had to work blind, relying on his fingers and ears and memory.

He had been down here working for over an hour now, after hiding in the bilge until certain that the _Spider_ was well out of port. The closer to dawn he completed his mission, the more streamlined the attack would be. This was a gamble and balancing act all in one, however, for the longer Sherlock stayed on the ship before giving a signal was that much more time he could be discovered. It was a risk he was willing to take, though. After all, he was clever. He could do this. No one on board had any idea he was here—a fact which they would come to regret once they learned what damage he was doing to their ship.

He rolled a barrel of gunpowder toward the nearest porthole, which he had tugged ajar. A steady stream of water cascaded down, wetting the powder below. Once it was more like mud than dust, Sherlock moved to another barrel. Time to move quickly, he reflected with a glance out of the porthole. The sun was still below the horizon, but the sky was beginning to grow lighter.

It would not be long now.

He was rolling the sixth barrel when he felt it. A slim, cool line of metal, pressed against the side of his neck.

“A guest,” a voice said. It was high for a man’s, almost lyrical, but undeniably cold.

And it was rather familiar.

Sherlock turned his head slowly to meet the gaze of the man who stood behind him. The warm golden light of a lantern cast strange shadows over his face. He was pale, a few years older than Sherlock, and had a face that was hard with malevolence.

Sherlock’s mouth shaped the beginning of his name, astonishment making his heart race. But the man shook his head, expression still so cold.

With slow, deliberate movements, he reached up toward the top of his head and pulled.

The wig of coppery locks fell away, revealing close-cropped dark brown hair beneath.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he greeted. His head tilted to the side just slightly, watching Sherlock with an almost childlike interest.

And Sherlock couldn’t breathe.

“Captain Moriarty,” the man previously known as Victor Trevor smirked. “Hi!”

 

* * *

 

John stood at the wheel of the _Zephyrus_ , staring across the ocean. The _Spider_ was up ahead somewhere, according to the map Sherlock had drawn of the vessel’s route. Somewhere, less than a mile away, sailed their worst enemy.

The _Zephyrus_ was staying far enough behind to not be spotted, but not so far behind that they could not be sure of their enemy’s path. There was the faintest of wakes left behind in the water ahead of them, not to mention Sherlock’s annotated map of this part of the sea.

Breadcrumbs in a watery path and smudges on a page, leading John back to him.

John looked over at Irene, who stood next to him. She held a telescope to her face, but put it down with a huff of frustration.

“Can’t see them,” she scowled.

“Good,” John murmured. “If we can’t see them, they can’t see us. You said the plan was to hang back until the opportune moment, yes?”

She nodded. “Until Sherlock gives the signal, hopefully just after dawn, once he finishes sabotaging the weapons. Then, we move in and attack. Simple.”

However, John was still unsure, despite Irene’s near-constant reassurances. It sounded too easy. After all, how was a ship such as the _Zephyrus_ going to stand a chance against the _Spider_? They would be outnumbered at least two to one, and that was not even considering the relative size of the two ships; the _Spider_ ’s larger bulk enabled them to carry more, and John did not relish the thought that the flagship of the NOTP likely had more weaponry.

Would they truly be able to surprise a ship that had defeated so many and caused so much pain and death? Or was this just a foolish, suicidal plan?

“Where is Victor?” he asked. He wanted someone to provide an additional opinion, someone else who knew all the details of the plan.

She shrugged. “Last I saw, he was below. Probably still chatting up your first mate,” she smirked.

He chuckled. “Probably. He’d do well to come topside soon, though, and help us prepare the crew.”

Then again, there was not much for John to do on that front; the pirates and _Fusilier_ sailors alike were in their positions already. Some were below, some were topside. Some were in groups, some were alone. Each person had a role to play, and each person was armed. They spoke quietly amongst themselves, reviewing plans of attack and the different stages of their assault. John spotted Winter and Wiggins conversing together, and he caught the latter’s eye. They exchanged a tense nod.

John lifted his gaze again, back toward the horizon. Just another hour or so, he hoped. And then they could end this at last.

He and Irene were quiet for the next few minutes, though the former adjusted course on occasion in response to Ekene’s signaled instructions. The scattered crew around them grew more silent and tense as time passed. All now seemed poised on a precipice, on the edge of a blade. Everyone waited for a gust of wind to blow them forward, to push them into motion. But even the breeze filling their sails seemed quieter than usual, as if nature herself sensed the importance of their task.

Then, the spell of quiet was broken.

“John!” James Sholto emerged from below-decks, a frown on his face.

“What is it?” he called, looking over. His lieutenant raced over.

“Victor isn’t up here?” he asked, scanning the deck as he reached John.

John blinked. “No. I thought he was with you.”

“And I thought he was discussing plans with _you_.”

John looked to Irene, whose forehead wrinkled. “Did he leave at Jakarta?”

She shook her head. “No idea. Why would he do that?”

John swallowed hard. Victor’s absence felt like an omen, though he could not decide why. There was something afoot here, something neither he nor Sherlock, nor indeed anyone else aboard the pirate ship, had foreseen.

He only hoped his worry was unwarranted. With luck, this was all part of Sherlock’s plan.

 

* * *

 

“Victor,” Sherlock stammered. “What-?”

“Oh, Sherlock, come now.” He began to move, and Sherlock moved in response, until he found himself pinned against the wall. “Are you actually surprised? You, the great Sherlock Holmes, who can see so much about people? Who can see all their little secrets?”

“Victor,” Sherlock tried not to let his voice catch. “What are you doing-?”

“Not Victor,” he snapped. “Not been Victor for some time, dear.”

His voice was different, silky and sinister in equal measure, almost like a song—though a haunting one. And not just his voice had changed; even his posture and expression were altered in subtle ways. He stood stiffer, more predatory almost, and the gleam in his eyes was no longer merely mischief. In a matter of seconds, this man had transformed from someone vaguely familiar, an old friend found once more, into a complete stranger, an enemy stepping out from the shadows at last.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock murmured. He reached for his sword at his waist, but the man twitched his own weapon against Sherlock’s neck, and he was forced to still his motion. His heart pounded hard in his chest. “I do not understand.”

Victor—or rather, Moriarty—grinned. “Oh, and I bet it pains you to say that, doesn’t it? It seems I have done my job rather well, then. Fooling both the Holmes brothers.”

He moved closer, lowering his weapon to his side, then trailed a finger along Sherlock’s jaw. “I shall have to pat myself on the back.”

“You’re Moriarty, the head of the NOTP,” Sherlock stammered. “Explain.”

“Gladly,” the man whispered, breath ghosting over Sherlock’s skin. He stepped back a bit then, and set his lantern on a hook dangling from the ceiling.

Once more, Sherlock tried to pull his weapon, and once more, Victor/Moriarty raised his own.

“Ah, ah, dearest,” he sang. “None of that now. Not if you want answers.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and barely kept himself from flinching at the use of what had been—until now—John’s favoured term of endearment for him. “Very well. Shall I let you clap me in irons, then? Or strap me to the mast, perhaps?”

Moriarty’s grin widened. “Not just yet, Sherl. Now, you listen to me.”

“Wait,” Sherlock cut him off, eliciting a raised eyebrow from the man. “You needn’t explain.”

His eyes scanned Moriarty. He thought back to the way Victor’s explanation of why he had dropped out of contact had been so vague. He recalled how the _Spider_ had targeted so many ships lately, when most sea battles ended before a shot was fired, one side usually surrendering early. He remembered how it had first targeted the _Sea Dragon_ , then Sholto’s, then Victor’s, then John’s.

Oh. A direct connection there. Each of the _Spider_ ’s actions lately were deliberate and treacherous, all tailored to bring about one result.

But why? Sherlock’s thoughts whirled, faster now, as Moriarty continued to eye him in the dim orange light. Why would Victor turn his back on everything they had fought for, for years, without a hint of remorse?

Unless… Sherlock’s eyes widened. Unless he had never truly wanted to destroy the NOTP at all, unless he had had another agenda entirely, all along.

“You have lied to me for years, haven’t you?” Sherlock breathed.

Moriarty grinned, like a pleased schoolteacher burdened with a particularly slow student who had just realized one and one made two. “Of course. Go on.”

“You wanted me to think we wanted the same thing, so you could, what, keep apprised of my investigation? But you were just a child when we met and when I told you about my desire to destroy the NOTP. Why would you, at such a young age, seek to mislead me. Why would you help a corrupt organization like that?”  
Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Oh, come now, Sherl. You know the answer already. It’s the same reason _you’ve_ done anything your whole life.”

Sherlock blinked. “My father.”

“Clever boy!” Moriarty beamed. It was a crazed look, unsettling in its childlike menace.

“Just as I was, you were motivated by a father,” Sherlock murmured. “Why? Your father was a good man. He was a friend of our family-”

“Not _him_!” he snapped suddenly. Sherlock stiffened as Moriarty’s smile twisted into a glare, sharp and piercing. “Sir Trevor, that boring buffoon, was not my real father, and you know it. My actual father, now, he was the real man.”

“Your actual-”

“The original Moriarty,” he said, speaking over Sherlock. “And, incidentally, the original head of the New Orient Trading Programme. Made it into a booming industry, as you know from your own dear daddy. Shortly after my oaf of an adopted father died, Moriarty senior found me. Told me all about his work, told me he could give me riches and power beyond anything I had imagined. I agreed, of course. Why wouldn’t I? Soooo much better than my old, boring life. That was just… staying. You understand.”

“So you pretended to befriend me,” Sherlock said. He knew he should be fighting, getting off this wretched ship before something worse happened than mere threats, but his mouth seemed to be working of its own accord. He had to spell it out, had to understand everything. He had to know why he had not seen this coming.

And Moriarty, damn him, knew it. Sherlock knew Victor’s face, and at the moment it was full of awareness. Awareness of Sherlock’s weakness for understanding, his driving need to fully solve a problem.

And the problem of the NOTP was the biggest problem of his life.

“It was all well and good, with you, for a while,” Moriarty nodded. “But only because you were so stupid. So blind to the truth right in front of your nose. Quite entertaining for me, but it did get old after a few years. So when I left, claiming to be working for the East India Company, I assumed I would never hear from you again. How could you and your idiot brother ever get anywhere near my father’s operation?”

For the first time since he had left the _Zephyrus_ , Sherlock’s lip curled into a smug smile. “But you were wrong. You did hear from me, and most importantly of me. You knew I was after you, and you knew I was getting close. Why else you would be here? Why else would you have made your way onto John Watson’s ship, if not to get near me?”

“Ah,” Moriarty put on an exaggeratedly-impressed expression, brows high and eyes wide. “You’ve figured it out, have you?”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock said. “I know _what_ you have been doing. I just cannot tell how.”

“And I bet that eats at you,” Moriarty murmured, smirking. “Allow me to move the narrative backwards a bit, before we get to your dear Johnny, shall we?

“I _had_ heard of you, Sherlock. An upstart little pirate, barely out of childhood but somehow moving about the seas unseen, targeting NOTP ships and those they came into contact with. You were a bit of a folktale among my sailors. Everyone likes a pirate tale, but I saw the pattern of your movements when no one else did. Even my father didn’t see. He just saw you as a nuisance we could eliminate any time.

“I never had gone to work with the EIC as I had told you. I had gone to him. I knew information and powerful people he did not, as I had grown up in luxury thanks to old Trevor. So Father was happy to take me in, when he had not been when I was first born. But it was not until he died that I saw my chance at attaining real power. Well, I say died. I suppose if you pushed me…” he giggled. “I’d have to admit I helped that event along.”

“You killed him,” Sherlock breathed. “You saw his death as a chance at your own rebirth. And that’s when you stopped writing to me.”

Moriarty grinned, the light and shadows on his face giving him a rather haunted, gaunt, sickly look. “Bravo, darling! You’re right, of course. I took up the mantle of head of the NOTP, and got this pretty ship to boot.” He spread his free arm out wide. “You assumed something terrible had happened to me, and isn’t that just so adorable? _And_ you even fell for my little yarn about Mycroft helping me. Such a little fool…”

“Why even keep up the letters for so long?” Sherlock asked. He still was stiff, pressed back against the side of the ship. Mentally, he berated himself. He should have realized something was wrong, that Victor had explained away his having to fake his death too easily. Sherlock should have scented something off. He _had_ been a fool.

“Well, someone had to lead you astray! You do have _some_ raw intelligence—so why do you think you would have made so little progress all those years? It’s called misinformation, dearest Sherl. I couldn’t have you hurting my Programme, not after all the improvements I’ve made to the its operations. Father didn’t even think about getting into weapons, or servants. Such untapped resources, now at my disposal. No, no, I couldn’t not let you think you were onto something. So I insured your knowledge was at the bare minimum, so your impact on us was small. Cutting you off later was a minor risk.”

Sherlock didn’t reply; how could he? Moriarty had deceived him for years, since they were youths. Any denial of that would sound weak and pathetic.

“And John Watson?” Sherlock prompted. _Oh, John, if only you were here_. Perhaps if Sherlock could just stall long enough, the _Zephyrus_ would have time to close the distance and begin to worry about the lack of a sign from Sherlock. They would grow concerned, and—he hoped—attack. He just had to continue playing on Moriarty’s tendency to brag, as Sherlock remembered from his youth. “Why bring him into this?”

“I have spies everywhere, Sherlock,” Moriarty sighed, sounding a bit exasperated. “Honestly, you think I wouldn’t have heard about your scandalous little romance with a Navy man? I was curious, not to mention your darling later took a troublesome sailor on board, who had seen something he shouldn’t have.”

“Sholto.” Sherlock nodded. “He saw your weapons smuggling. You know we’re aware of this.”

“Yes. Dear Sholto. Another fool. Your ship is just full of them, isn’t it? He fell for every word I said, that we were both victims, and that he must be so brave and strong to have survived. Idiot.”

“So you, what, dove off your ship to get on John’s?”

Moriarty giggled again, the sound echoing through the space. Sherlock suppressed a shiver. “I was undercover at the time. You’re right when you said the East India Company is my worst opponent—well, other than you. I was on one of their ships, but… it got tedious. You know how it is.”

“You sunk them?”

Moriarty nodded. “Well, set them on fire first. But yes. Staying alive gets boring, doesn’t it? I had to mix it up, and I knew Watson’s ship wasn’t far away. I had my dear _Spider_ following it.”

Sherlock swallowed, hardening his expression. “And because you knew Sholto was there, you had to destroy the _Fusilier_.”

“Of course,” Moriarty’s eyes were lurid in the orange light. “And I knew you were nearby, tracking this ship.”

“So you sunk John not just because of Sholto, but because of me? You… you _knew_ I would rescue them, and by extension, bring you aboard?” Sherlock felt his heart clench and his stomach twist. How had Moriarty, a man who had not spoken to Sherlock in years, know what he would do? Sherlock himself had not known what his decision was until the moment he had ordered the longboats to be dropped.

“I know you, Sherlock,” Moriarty breathed, confirming Sherlock’s worst fears. The man had shifted close again, eyeing him. His hands moved to Sherlock’s sides, lightly feeling the lines of his hips. Sherlock suppressed a shudder as Moriarty leaned close. “I know you better than anyone. Your lust for freedom, for revenge, your brilliance and arrogance. No one else understands. No one else ever saw it, not even Mycroft. And certainly not your little idiotic Navy man.”

Sherlock was trapped, and he knew it. Pinned between Moriarty and the wall, with no one around.

No. He had to stop this.

“If you understand me so well,” he hissed, “then tell me why you thought it was a wise decision to keep me alive? You know I will stop at nothing until you and your entire despicable organization have crumbled to nothing. Yet you fired only two rounds at the _Sea Dragon_ , enough to sink us but not to annihilate the crew. You did not shoot those in the water. Why? Sentiment. You are prone to it as well. You enjoy this game too much to rid yourself of me. You wanted me to see who you really are before killing me.”

Moriarty bared his teeth, but Sherlock did not back down. “You wanted to keep me alive, just for a bit longer,” he whispered. “That is your most severe mistake to date.”

And he raised both his hands and shoved Moriarty away.

The captain of the _Spider_ stumbled backward, the sword falling from his hand and skittering across the floor. Sherlock rose to his full height. He moved forward, intending to fight his way out. But Moriarty was quicker, pulling a gun out of an unseen place on his person, bringing it to rest on Sherlock’s cheek. He grabbed Sherlock, yanking his arm behind his back and kicking his knees out from under him. Sherlock went down hard, dropping to the floor, the gun following him.

Moriarty loomed over him; he did not have to speak. The look on his face was enough of a threat.

“Of course I didn’t kill you. I’d not finished with you quite yet, lovely thing,” Moriarty murmured. “Why do you think I followed you here? I wanted to see how far you’d get. I must admit, you have done more than I expected. But now, you’re just proving rather a disappointment, getting caught so easily. Yet annoyingly you’re maybe a teensy bit of a threat. And we can’t have that, can we?”

His fingers brushed against Sherlock again, along his jaw to his cheek, which he cradled. A sly, vindictive smile made one side of his lip quirk upward, and his grip tightened on Sherlock.

“This will be fun,” he murmured. “Come on. Let me introduce you to my crew.”

He wrenched Sherlock to his feet, burying the gun barrel in his side. Sherlock moaned but had no choice but to move forward. He and Moriarty made their way toward the stairs, and the captain shoved Sherlock up them, causing him to stumble.

“Look boys!” Moriarty called at the top of the stairs. “We’ve a stowaway!”

There were few men on deck when they first emerged, but more began to arrive in response to Moriarty’s delighted calls. Several men approached and dragged Sherlock up to the mainmast, slamming him against it.

Sherlock grunted as his cheek made hard contact with the wood, then blinked several times rapidly when he recognized the man to his left.

“Sebastian Moran,” he growled. “I am pleased to see you have found another employment.”

“No thanks to you, Holmes,” Moran hissed into Sherlock’s ear.

“Now, now, Sebastian,” Moriarty chided. “No need to invade the poor man’s space.”

“Yes, no need at all,” Sherlock glared at Moran as the man retreated to Moriarty’s side, leaving Sherlock to be held back by the other sailor, who had at least two stone and half a head on him.

“So, Sherlock,” Moriarty slunk close, standing a foot away and surveying Sherlock as if he were somehow delectable. “What was your plan? Drowning my gunpowder, certainly, and what else? Planning to cut our sails and lines? Burn us down?”

Sherlock did not reply, so Moriarty stepped closer. His fingers lifted to clutch Sherlock’s jaw. And Sherlock, held so tightly, could not flinch away.

“Come on, Sherlock,” he sang. “Tell me what I want to know. You’re all alone here. Your precious Navy man isn’t here to save you. Not that he’d be able to, weak thing that he is.”

His entire demeanor had shifted again, Sherlock noticed. The moment they had moved away from the weapons and the secluded space where he had cornered Sherlock, Moriarty had changed. Now, he was impish, playful, yet almost formal in his speech. More violent than intimate, almost performative in his threatening tone. As if he wished to downplay their previous connection.

Alright, then. Sherlock could play along. Feign the part of a defiant captive, and continue to buy as much time as possible.

“You desire me to speak,” Sherlock said. “Would you have me declare all the crimes you have committed? Or have me enumerate the lives you have destroyed?”

Moriarty’s eyes widened dramatically, and he even lifted a hand to his chest as though scandalized. “Why, I can hardly imagine what you mean. We are a ship of a trading company-”

“Yes, a trading company that deals in stolen goods, illegal opium, unlawful weapons, and kidnapped men, women, and children.” Sherlock threw off the hands of the men holding him and straightened to his full height, though he stayed against the mast. Saying these words aloud gave him a sort of vindictive pleasure, despite the fact he was surrounded by the enemy. “You have ruined the lives of many, by your own hand or through your corrupt methods. This is a criminal operation, and this-” He gestured to the ship, and the entire crew watched the movement. “This ship is at the center of the web. You are correct, Captain Moriarty, in thinking that I am here to destroy you. Napoleon Bonaparte may be working to forge himself as emperor of the known world, but in a similar sense, you are the Napoleon of crime.”

His words rang, carrying over the deck and across the water. Moriarty let them, for just a moment, but then approached until he and Sherlock were nearly nose to nose.

“You are arrogant, Sherlock, to say these things,” he murmured. His voice was so low it bordered on indecent. But the next time he spoke, it was a cry that all could hear. And despite the volume, his voice was so casual and indifferent that shudders coursed up Sherlock’s spine.

“Keelhaul him.”

 

* * *

 

“There she is,” Kate called from the crow’s nest. “ _Spider_ up ahead!”

John lifted the telescope and sighted the ship, only a faint silhouette on the horizon. It had a favourable wind at the moment, but that was what they were counting on. According to Sherlock’s notes, the _Spider_ ’s usual route would turn slightly to the west soon, so they would be no longer entirely with the wind at that point.

And that was when the _Zephyrus_ would catch up.

“Ekene,” John waved to get the man’s attention, then began to sign one-handed, the other clutching the wheel. “Can you calculate precisely what direction we need to turn to intercept them?”

Ekene nodded and darted down to where he had spread his maps and tools on the main deck. Sholto, meanwhile, emerged topside again, having gone below to search one last time. The worried shake of his head told John the answer before he even asked his question.

There was still no sign of Victor. That fact was concerning, but John shook it off. He had other matters to focus on, chief among them keeping everyone on this ship—and Sherlock—from dying horrible deaths at the hands of corrupt sailors. Wherever Victor had gone, he would have to fend for himself.

“Right then,” John murmured to himself, running his thumb over the hilt of his sword. “Sherlock, dearest, you’d better be in one piece when I get to you.”

 

* * *

 

The ropes cut into Sherlock’s ankles, chafing and stinging. He bit down on his lip to keep himself from crying out as he was dragged across the deck toward the stern, the wood burning and scraping him.

“Now then, dear Sherlock,” Victor— _no, not Victor_ —Moriarty crowed, triumphant and gleeful, his eyes gleaming with giddy malice. “Here is your last chance. Join me, and all this need not happen.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Join you?”

Moriarty bent down to Sherlock’s level, and his voice dropped to match it. “You and I, Sherlock, think of it. I have watched you all the years we have been apart. You are brave, resourceful… beautiful.” This time, instead of touching Sherlock’s jaw, he pulled back the deep blue headscarf to reveal Sherlock’s scar. His eyes drank it in, his fingers stroked it. Even knowing—for he had to be aware—he himself was responsible for the injury, he seemed to relish the evidence of Sherlock’s pain. “You were always beautiful. And I think we would be brilliant together.”

Sherlock glared at him. How could he ask this? After everything he had done, to Sherlock’s family, to Sherlock, to John?

“I would rather die a thousand deaths than work with you, Victor,” he whispered.

There was a quavering instant of silence, and then Moriarty straightened up. His singsong voice made it seem as if the last exchange had never occurred.

“Let’s go, boys!”

Sherlock struggled against the overwhelming numbers moving to hold him down, but to no avail. The men carried him up the steps to the poop deck and toward the railing. Yet even as he fought, he watched a sudden movement above him. A new set of sails unfurled while the first, the black ones, were pulled up.

And the scarlet wave seemed to wash over Sherlock’s vision, saturating everything with the color, Moriarty’s laughter ringing loud in his ears. This is the end, those sails said. There is no hope.

An instant later, Sherlock found himself plunging through the air, the rope around his legs burning. And then he hit the surface of the frigid, unforgiving sea.

 

* * *

 

John watched the _Spider_ ’s increased wake ahead, low ripples in the water, fading the closer they got to the _Zephyrus_. Good; they appeared to be maintaining their new distance, still mostly out of sight and waiting for Sherlock’s signal. He lifted his eyes to the horizon, where a pale yellow light peered over the faraway line.

He knew the plan specified sunrise and Sherlock’s signal for the cannons being disarmed. It called for catching the _Spider_ off guard before the full crew was awake, and for sinking them as quickly as possible. The strategy was vague and simple, which Irene seemed to like. However…

He looked again toward the _Spider_. He could not explain it, and perhaps it was all in his head, but he had a strange inkling something was not right. They had missed something, overlooked a key fact, in making this impassioned plan. Driven by grief and revenge, they all had failed to notice one specific factor. John only wished he knew what it was, but for now something in his gut told him they had to act, had to get to Sherlock before something terrible happened to him.

 _Something terrible might be happening right now_ , a small voice reminded John. A voice that was growing louder by the moment. _Perhaps waiting for Sherlock’s signal is not the best course of action. Perhaps there is a better way to take on the_ Spider…

Oh. Oh!

John grinned as an amended strategy blossomed in his mind. And so he summoned Ekene, examined the man’s maps and markings, then twisted the wheel.

“What are you doing?” Irene asked, joining him again, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

“I think I know how to do this,” he replied.

“What?” Irene asked. “John, from this angle, they’ll see us coming by a mile!”

“No,” John declared, as they banked rather sharply to the side. “They won’t.”

“John, we can’t move in yet-” Irene tried again, but John only shook his head. This was not her call to make, not now. Because _John_ was the one at the helm of a well-armed pirate ship, surrounded by men and women with weapons at the ready as they coursed over the waves toward battle. _John_ was the one with the plan, who finally felt he could actually do something more than stand to the side.

If it was the last thing he did, _John_ was the one who would save Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

What was up? Down? Where was the surface?

Water, nothing but water.

Sherlock scrambled, flailing his arms in a desperate attempt to get to the surface. If only he knew which direction to swim.

The _Spider_ had not been moving quickly when they had first thrown Sherlock overboard, but as the red sails were now completely unfurled to catch the full force of the wind, the vessel was picking up speed.

Meaning Sherlock was buffeted back and forth, a sheet of paper in a cyclone. Only occasionally would he be flung above the surface, barely long enough to gasp a desperate gulp of air before plunging back into the water.

 _Crash_.

Again, his body smashed against the ship, and he cried out—a stream of bubbles burst from his mouth as his face screwed up from the pain. When he forced his eyes open, the water around him shone bright red.

The rough underside of the _Spider_ , covered in sharp growths and salt residue, had cut open his side with that last collision. Sherlock reckoned he had a few more minutes before he either was knocked out or otherwise wounded badly enough to die.

He again broke the surface, sucking in mist and salty air with the desperation of… well, of a drowning man.

 _Crash_.

He barely got his hands behind his neck and his head bent down in time. His back collided with the ship once more, and he grimaced as the water flowed around him. He drifted a few feet from the vessel and exhaled in relief for the momentary reprieve. More lacerations had opened up on his body, and the waves around were a frothy pink from his blood. He could not survive this much longer.

 _Breathe_ , he told himself, clawing again for the blessed air above. He made it, not caring that half of his lungful was water. _Breathe. You can solve this._

He kicked, forcing his throbbing, stinging, weakening body to swim away from the ship. The wake coming off the _Spider_ made forward movement difficult, but he dreaded the alternative of allowing himself to continue to scrape along the ship’s underside. The rope around his ankles seemed a vice, numbing his foot.

The rope.

 _Fool!_ Sherlock scolded. He twisted around, and started to again move toward the ship. He wrapped his hands around the rope and, groaning, hoisted himself above the water to get better leverage.

 _Crash_.

He struck the wood again and gasped. Something in his arm seemed to give, and an ominous popping sound sent white-hot agony lancing through the limb. He cried out, even as his body was dragged along, catching on barnacles. He clung desperately to the rope with his one good arm.

 _Out of the socket_ , he thought, through flickering vision and wavering focus. _Need to treat it soon, and clean the wounds. John will_.

John.

The image of the man’s face, soft and smiling, reaching for him in his bed, swam in front of him, even as his grip slackened and he fell back into the water.

John had said this was a poor decision.

Sherlock hated being wrong. But perhaps, in this case, he would have to concede. For now he could not even use both his arms to free himself.

A jerk on the rope yanked a cry from his throat.

Movement. More cuts, skin splitting as his body was pulled along the ship.

Wait. _Upward_ movement.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. Yes, he was being pulled back up, toward the railing, back onto the poop deck. Hands reached for him, dragging him over.

The deck was dry, and smooth.

Sherlock pressed his cheek into it, eyes slipping closed again. His lungs could not get enough air; they were full of seawater and did not seem to want to expand fully. He coughed, and it felt as though his throat were coated in salt. His body was on fire, his shoulder aching.

But John had come. John had saved him.

“Oh dear,” a voice murmured over him, laced with amusement.

No.

Sherlock twisted, biting on his lip in an attempt to stay silent, and faced Moriarty.

“Not so fun, is it, Sherlock?” he asked. The crew around them laughed, and a few swung their boots at him. Sherlock flinched and tucked in his chin to protect his face from the blows. Their laughter grew louder, but they stopped kicking him. His limbs shook as he attempted to stand. Then, Moriarty’s foot pressed onto the small of his back, and Sherlock collapsed against the wood again with a groan.

“Ah, ah, Sherlock,” he crowed, triumphant. “I know you’re not much up to speaking or moving right now—that was a rough ride you just had,” Moriarty continued, and again paused to let the men laugh and jeer. “However, this is your last chance to save your life. Join me, agree to sail with me, and I will spare you. We can conquer the globe, be rulers of the high seas, together.”

 _The offer is appreciated, but actually the water’s fine_ , Sherlock tried to say. But what came out was nothing more than a pathetic, waterlogged heave.

“Oh, come now, Sherlock!” Moriarty cried. Footsteps rattled through Sherlock’s fuzzy brain, and then Moriarty’s face loomed in front of him. His fingers brushed back Sherlock’s curls, and a mocking pout bloomed on the man’s lips. “It’s not a bad offer, is it? I might even spare your beloved little ship if you agree.”

The _Zephyrus_. The memory of the first time he had seen her, half-built but calling for him somehow, appeared in his mind’s eye. Followed by images of the _Sea Dragon_ ’s mast sinking beneath the surface, the broken look on his mother’s face after learning of his father’s death, the fear in his crew’s eyes as they had watched him depart the ship last night. The fear in _John’s_ eyes.

How could he let them down? If he did not submit to Moriarty, they would be hunted down and killed. They would meet a fate like that of his father’s.

But if he _did_ submit to Moriarty… He would become complicit in the NOTP’s corruption.

And John… John would never forgive him for that. Just as Sherlock would never forgive himself.

The gashes on Sherlock’s skin screamed out as he hoisted himself up onto his hands and knees and fixed his most withering gaze on Moriarty. The crew around had fallen silent, watching.

“I will never join you,” he spat, and even though weak, his voice came out fierce and sure.

Moriarty did not react for a moment, but then rolled his eyes.

“I had such high hopes for you, Sherlock. I’ve been watching all these years, ever since you got your beloved little _Sea Dragon_. I could see the potential, if only I could get my hands on you. You long for freedom, and I can give you that. But noooooo, you still refuse! So boring. You’re on the side of the angels after all.”

He paced and spun about as he spoke, hands gesturing and expression almost exaggerated in its manic manner.

“Hardly,” Sherlock replied. “I am no hero, and certainly no angel.”

Moriarty regarded him, brown eyes sparkling with malice. “Well, then.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “I suppose I shall just have to kill you, then. But first I will kill every member of your meddling little crew, and then… I will take a long… long time killing you.”

He waved a hand, and men moved in, hauling Sherlock upright. They moved toward the railing once more.

“No,” Sherlock protested, but the sudden motion had left him light-headed. “No, please.”

The rope was still tied around his ankles. And this time, he was sure, they would not pull him out of the water until he was dead.

“No!” he cried, pulling feebly at the hands that held him fast. “No!”

 _Bang_.

Two of the men holding him started at the sudden crack of a gunshot.

“What was that?” Moriarty asked sharply.

“Dunno, Captain,” Moran said.

Everyone looked about, and then, from out of the sunlight, a shape emerged alongside them.

The _Zephyrus_.

“Now!” a voice yelled. John’s voice.

An instant later—BOOM. A synchronized round of cannonballs blasted from the _Zephyrus_ ’s guns, slamming into the _Spider_.

Sherlock watched in wonder. The _Zephyrus_ had seemed to come out of nowhere, but that was only an illusion. Somehow, the crew—or perhaps, Sherlock suspected, wonderful, brilliant John—had angled their travel path so they moved in on the _Spider_ from the east. They used the rising sun, just on the horizon line at the moment, to their advantage. Thus, they were able to surprise the NOTP flagship by coming directly out of the bright light.

“To arms!” Moriarty screamed, face livid. “Take them down!”

The _Spider_ crew launched into action, scrambling for guns and swords and dashing belowdecks for the cannons. But Sherlock, now free and swaying at the railing, stared. And though his lungs were still waterlogged, his body still pained and weak, he managed to scramble over to stare across the narrow space between their ships in awe.

John.

At the railing of the pirate ship, Sherlock’s lover wrapped his fingers around a rope, leaped up and over the railing, and soared through the air toward the _Spider_.

John’s gaze was fierce as he leveled his gun and fired. A man near Sherlock fell, crying out as a bullet rammed through his gut. A crack shot.

And still John soared. His hair was wild, his eyes were afire. He was gorgeous.

He swung over the sea and up toward the _Spider_ ’s mast, reaching the height of his arc in moments. At that point, he let go of the rope and flew, unaided, through the air. A knife glinted in his hand as he caught himself on the _Spider_ ’s mainsail and began to slide down it, slicing a long gash in the crimson fabric as he did so.

John’s feet hit the deck with a sound like a thunderclap, and his face broke into a glorious grin. His sword sung as he pulled it from its sheath and flung himself into battle. Sherlock watched with still hazy vision, wonder spreading through him as he saw how John moved. Strong, confident in a way Sherlock had never before seen his lover.

And behind him, more members of the _Zephyrus_ crew were swinging over on ropes like John, while gangplanks and grappling hooks slammed into the _Spider_ ’s railing.

And the pirates boarded.

Sherlock tried to move forward to help, but weakness brought him to his knees before he could do more than take a single step. Then, a claw grabbed him and pressed an icy-cold sword against his throat.

“That’s hardly fair,” Moriarty said in a tone somewhere in between a snarl and a whine. “There’s two of you!”

Sherlock twisted, but was still too weak to effectively shake the man off. Yet still he struggled. Then—even as he felt a line of warm blood trickle down his neck—he felt Moriarty stiffen as another voice replied.

“There’s _always_ two of us,” John Watson declared. “Turn around.”

Moriarty spun, dragging Sherlock with him. John stood mere feet away, hand holding his pistol dangling at his side, his sword leveled at Moriarty’s eyes. His chest was heaving, but he still grinned that beautiful, exhilarated grin of a man whose plan had gone exactly how it was intended.

Until now.

The smile slipped off his handsome, tanned face as he stared at the man clutching Sherlock.

“Victor?” he asked, frowning, his lips parting. “What are you doing here?” He glanced at Sherlock for the merest of instants, as if for confirmation. Sherlock could only watch, but was reassured when John’s raised weapon did not waver.

“It’s Captain James Moriarty, you insolent creature. Not Victor. Hateful name anyway. Although…” he smirked. “Almost appropriate, as I rule the seas. I am the victor, the conqueror.”

“Victor,” John began, face hardening and stance shifting lower. “You do not have to fight. Surrender.”

Trust John to give even a criminal a chance to end the battle peacefully. But then, John adjusted his grip on his sword slightly—just as Sherlock had taught him so long ago on the decks of the _Sea Dragon_. And Sherlock understood. He wasn’t really giving Victor an out, not while there was a blade to Sherlock’s throat.

“Surrender?” Moriarty laughed, cold and high. “To you? To an insignificant little sailor who shacked up with a naïve, revenge-obsessed pirate? The weak little captain who snatched stupid old Sholto from me? Darling, why would I ever surrender to you?”

He then whispered in Sherlock’s ear, breath condensing on Sherlock’s cheek. “By the way, Sherlock, really? Your taste appalls me. You could do much better.”

And he threw Sherlock to the deck, where he crumpled. His wounds were still bleeding, and his shoulder still burning. He could not move, except to look at John.

John did not look back this time, deep blue eyes fixed on Moriarty. “Very well,” he said as he slipped his gun into its holster. The grin reemerged, but this time it took the form of a challenging smirk, mischievous and ruthless all at once. “You won’t surrender? Good. I could use some sparring practice.”

And they moved, Moriarty’s sword whipping up to meet John’s.

 

* * *

 

John ducked as Moriarty slashed at his head. The man’s technique was aggressive, his pale face contorted with anger.

“Where are my cannons?” Moriarty yelled. “Fire!”

John laughed even as he parried, then stepped forward, trying to go on the offensive.

“Problem with your guns, Moriarty?” he goaded, raising his voice above the din of the battle swelling around them. He suppressed a sigh of relief. Moving in on the _Spider_ when they had was a gamble, as there had been no guarantee Sherlock had completed his work. Obviously, he had.

He really had managed to sabotage the cannons.

“What have you done?” Moriarty growled, a crazed, frightening grin spreading on his face.

John only let his smile taunt the man. Their swords flashed, and their feet dodged. He kept an eye on Sherlock, still limp on the deck, clothing shredded and body stained scarlet from various wounds.

When John had realized through the telescope that Sherlock was being keelhauled—the rope stretching into the ocean off the stern had revealed the terrible truth—he had nearly fallen over with fear. What a barbaric punishment. There had been no question in John’s mind that it was Sherlock at the end of that rope, Sherlock who was likely terrified if he was even conscious, Sherlock who was drowning and bleeding and dying.

So John had launched into action, ordering the sails to be dropped so the _Zephyrus_ could shoot forward out of the sunlight. But fear for Sherlock infected him beyond the point of rationality, and when John caught sight of the pirate captain limp in the hands of the enemy, John gave the helm to Ekene, sent a warning shot across the _Spider_ ’s bow, grabbed a rope, and jumped into oblivion.

Now, even as John had to focus on Moriarty and his vicious sword, he could not help but watch for Sherlock to move. The man had slumped down, body shaking as he tried weakly to force himself to his feet again. And John’s heart twisted in his chest, worry for Sherlock overriding his worry for himself. How could he concentrate on the enemy before him, when his lover was in pain?

“Focus, Johnny!” Moriarty cried. His sword whipped across, but John blocked it, his smile slipping.

Oh, he wanted to play, did he? Well, John would show him.

He stepped forward, and twirled his sword about. Moriarty may be the captain and leader of one of the most powerful trading companies in the world, and he may be responsible for the deaths of probably hundreds, and he may be coming at John with a sword, but he did not know what he was dealing with in John Watson.

BOOM.

John felt a wash of savage pleasure as the sound, even as the _Spider_ shook and rocked beneath his feet.

BOOM.

The cannons of the _Zephyrus_ were working quickly, and John could just make out Sholto’s voice on the pirate ship, calling out orders. John smiled. The crew from the _Fusilier_ had stayed behind to work the cannons, while the pirates had gone on the attack.

“Fire!” Moriarty screamed again, his movements ruthless as he and John fought. “Fire the cannons!”

John laughed. “They won’t work!”

He climbed the steps, letting Moriarty chase him up to the wheel, and dodged around it. Moriarty pursued him, face split in a fierce snarl.

“What did you do to them, Watson?” he demanded. “What have you done?”

BOOM.

The _Spider_ lurched to the side. Cries sounded, the NOTP sailors commanding and exclaiming and some simply screaming. John heard a crash, but did not take his eyes off his opponent to look.

After all, he knew that sound, had heard it when the _Fusilier_ had gone down. One of the masts had broken and fallen.

“What did you do to the cannons?” Moriarty asked again.

“What makes you think it was me?” John asked, blocking yet another assault by the man’s sword. “When would I have had time to do anything?”

Moriarty’s bright eyes widened. “Sherlock,” he hissed.

“Of course,” John could not help but feel a surge of pride for his pirate. “I really haven’t the foggiest idea what he did, but it clearly worked, didn’t it? Where did you find him anyway?”

“With the gunpowder,” Moriarty protested.

John snorted. “He’s cleverer than you. The gunpowder never was the real target—the cannons were!”

Moriarty yelled in fury, and John moved in close, swinging his sword around toward the man’s head. But Moriarty ducked just in time, and drove his own weapon upward. John threw himself back, the cool metal grazing the side of his face. A close call, too close.

BOOM.

“Fire!” a new voice called, frantic and carrying. John swore, and even Moriarty faltered. John frowned, thinking that somehow the men had found a way around Sherlock’s sabotage. But when the cry was taken up, along with calls about abandoning ship, John let his eyes move from Moriarty at last.

Oh.

They meant an actual fire.

It seemed that those who had stayed on the _Zephyrus_ had done their job too well. The last round from the cannons, it seemed, had hit the remaining stores of the _Spider_ ’s gunpowder, and the hull had exploded in flames. The damaged vessel, now beginning to tilt at a dangerous angle in the water, creaked and groaned.

It was going down, and would take anyone who stayed with it.

“Sir!” a voice yelled, and John realized it belonged to that of Sebastian Moran, face bloodied and eyes full of fury. “Should we abandon ship?”

John watched as Moriarty’s eyes cut—for only an instant—toward the other man, and so John seized his chance. He swung his sword about, just as he had with James Sholto in their last spar, slashing to disarm and throw his opponent down.

But somehow, Moriarty anticipated the move and twisted away, his own weapon colliding with John’s and pushing back. Thrown off balance, John staggered, and before he could right himself, something hard and cold smashed into the back of his head. Dazed, John staggered, and tumbled back down the stairs onto the main deck. His sword flew out of his hand and skittered across the wood, landing in a patch of rapidly growing flames. His pistol clattered away as well, vanishing in the smoke.

John twisted to find Moriarty looming over him as he made his way down the steps, several of which were catching on fire. The hilt of his sword was stained with blood, and John raised his hand to the site of the blow to realize it was his own; the man had hit him with the blunt end of the weapon.

“Sir!” Moran demanded, struggling to remain upright. John saw groups grappling all around them, though many of both sides were fleeing as the ship crumbled beneath their feet. Screams and shouts and the continued sound of weaponry rent the air, all beginning to be drowned by the roar of the fire.

“You dare harm my ship?” Moriarty addressed his words at John. “Me? Darling, I could destroy you a dozen ways before you even realized. You are nothing compared to me. I have connections you cannot even imagine.”

“Yeah?” John asked. “Well if you are so powerful, then why is _your_ ship the one that is sinking?”

The man giggled, a maniacal, unnerving laugh. The flames were rising higher now, and John sensed rather than saw the pirates and sailors alike abandoning ship.

“Oh, honey. This won’t stop me. Just you wait and see.”

Ignoring Moran’s continued cries, Moriarty lifted his sword and drove it down. The metal stabbed into John’s gut, and for a moment all John could see was red. Red everywhere, the flames around and the sails above and the blood below.

He gasped, a sharp searing pain shooting through him in response. His fingers grasped the blade, not caring as it cut his palms, as he tried to tug the weapon out.

Moriarty cackled above him. “Sherlock will be so sad to see you go, Johnny!”

Sherlock.

John’s vision was flickering, going black at the edges. Desperate, he shoved against the deck with his feet, pushing away from Moriarty even as the man advanced. He may be heading toward the fire, but it was better than letting this man have the satisfaction of killing him.

“John!” a new voice yelled. Irene. “Get out of there!”

“Go!” he managed to reply. “Fire again! Take them down! Get Sherlock out!”

Moriarty raised his eyebrows. “You are still trying to save your sweetheart? Oh, dearie, please. You can’t. I’ve won.”

John coughed, and he felt something warm trickle from the side of his mouth. He moved back again, unable to rise to his feet. He had no idea where Sherlock was, everything past a few feet obscured by flame and smoke.

He hoped the pirate had escaped. He hoped he was alright.

“Well,” Moriarty said. He yanked the sword out—John cried out as it exited his body—and examined the blood streaked on the metal. “I guess this is goodbye, little sailor.”

John felt something solid and warm under his fingertips. His salvation.

Moriarty raised his sword once more over his head.

He brought it down.

And John lifted his own arm to meet it.

The blade dug into his skin, and John yelled at the pain. But even still, he brought his legs under him and forced himself to standing. Moriarty’s eyes flew wide again at the sight.

“I’m not a sailor,” John said. Then, with Moriarty mesmerized, gaze fixed on him, his brown eyes shining in the light of the fires surrounding them, John moved. He lifted his own sword, pulled from the flames and now red-hot, and pressed the blade to the wound in his stomach. Steam rose, and he yelled as it burned and burned at his skin.

But the wound was sealed.

“I’m a pirate,” he hissed.

He drove the still burning sword into Moriarty’s chest.

Moriarty’s bright brown eyes widened in shock, even as his body appeared to fold in on itself and crumple to the deck. “You-” he choked out. But the red stain on his shirt was expanding rapidly around the hilt of the sword, the blood saturating the fabric. His hands lifted, shaking, to grasp at the injury, as if that small pressure would cure him. His eyes moved to meet John’s gaze, his mouth formed soundless words, his fingers began to grapple more and more weakly.

“You will never touch Sherlock again,” John snarled. He pulled the sword out with a wet snick, and Moriarty collapsed onto his back, chest heaving.

John waited just long enough to watch the light fade from Moriarty’s eyes before he was moving.

“Sherlock?” he yelled. He raised his bleeding arm, trying to keep the smoke and blinding light of the flames from reaching his eyes. He coughed hard. “Sherlock!”

The fire was unstoppable now, climbing the masts and spreading all across the deck. Red and orange light flickered across John’s face. He felt the near-scalding heat creep along his skin, and he knew he had to escape.

“Sherlock!” he cried again. “Please!”

“John!” Irene emerged through the smoke, eyes wild. “Come on!”

He followed her, and passing a section of smoke revealed the crew of the _Zephyrus_ abandoning ship via longboats. The sailors of the _Spider_ were escaping as well, many diving straight into the water or crashing their own longboats into the sea with abandon.

A few, however, were still fighting, even as the pirates retreated. Among them was Sebastian Moran, whose face was twisted in a snarl. He seemed to be moving toward a particular destination, and John turned his gaze to follow the man’s trajectory.

“No!” John cried and dove forward.

For Moran was moving toward Sherlock, who was sprawled, apparently unconscious.

John’s sword cut into Moran’s arm, and the man whirled with a yell to engage in the fight.

But he found himself facing three blades rather than one.

John glanced around to find Kitty Winter and Irene Adler standing with him, surrounding Moran. “Surrender,” Winter hissed.

The man’s eyes had widened at the prospect of facing three fighters, and—grudgingly—he lowered his sword to the deck.

“Moran,” John found himself saying. “Get into the longboat. We can get you and your men to safety.”

He felt the women’s eyes on him, surprised and incredulous, but he ignored them.

Moran only raised his eyebrows and spat at John’s feet.

“Fair enough,” John shrugged. He kicked Moran’s sword into the flames. “Burn here for all I care. Now, Irene, Winter… Let’s get off this ship.”

He stepped around to Sherlock, heart in his throat. His fingers trembled as he rolled his lover over and pushed the matted locks off his forehead.  
“Sherlock,” he breathed. “Come on, my darling, we have to go. Open your eyes for me, please.”

But Sherlock did not stir, and together John and Irene lifted his prone form. The _Spider_ jolted and rocked under them, tipping precariously on one end as it slipped on an inexorable path, into the depths.

They lowered Sherlock into a longboat, the last of their crew off the vessel. Winter seized the oars and made for the _Zephyrus_ , while John bent over their captain. No one spoke as he fumbled at Sherlock’s neck for a heartbeat.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he let out an unsteady exhale that was more like a sob. “He’s alive. He’s alive.”

Irene grinned, and stood. She cried to the rest of the crew, both on the ship and in boats like theirs. They took up the cry, cheering.

They had survived, and more than that, they had won.

But John hardly heard any of it; he crouched over Sherlock, the only important sight to him in that instant being the pirate’s face.

Sherlock’s body was ravaged, covered in gashes and bruises and blood. He was still soaked, though the heat from the fire had caused steam to curl from his tattered clothing. There were burns tracing along his arm, where the flames had crept too close for comfort. His shoulder looked injured as well, sitting not quite right in its place, and his left ankle was misaligned as well.

“Sherlock,” John breathed. “It’s alright. I have you now. You’re safe.”

Irene and Winter helped him, and with much grunting and cursing, they got Sherlock up the ladder onto the deck of the _Zephyrus_. John lowered him down, cradling his head in his lap. The surviving crew, many sporting wounds and dirtied faces, gathered around. Irene, Ekene, and Sholto stood nearest, and all eyes were fixed on Sherlock and John.

“Come on,” John murmured, heart hammering and breath catching in his throat. “Come on. Please.”

He was about to look up, to call for Molly and ask her to take Sherlock below to recover, when movement made him freeze. Sherlock coughed. His eyes flicked back and forth beneath their lids, and he stirred in John’s arms. With what appeared to be a monumental effort, Sherlock forced his eyes open.

“John,” he croaked. His gaze shifted all over, surveying his surroundings before finally landing on John. His hand lifted, movements weak, and grasped at the front of John’s shirt. “You…”

“I’m here, I’m here, you’re safe.” John kissed Sherlock’s wet curls.

“You’ve been practicing with your sword,” Sherlock said in wonder, a small smile splitting his salt-dusted lips and brightening his wearied, bloodied face.

The words were so unexpected, and John was so exhausted and relieved that he burst out laughing. He bundled the man up in his arms, feeling Sherlock chuckle in the embrace. “Sherlock,” John whispered as his laughter faded. “It’s alright, darling. It’s over.”

Sherlock twisted with a groan to look over the railing and across the waves. The _Spider_ rose from the sea there, backlit by the sunrise. Now, though, the light of the fires aboard outshone the sun’s rays and illuminated the waves in orange and gold. The vessel creaked in a dying keen as it continued to sink, Moriarty and Moran still aboard. John thought he could discern the latter’s form, standing tall even in his defeat, over his captain’s body, as the ship went down.

“It’s over,” Sherlock murmured. When he turned back to John, he was smiling. He was still disheveled, bloody, and soaked. But the look of awe on his face, the exhilaration, the relief, made him stunning.

“Yes,” John nodded. “You did it.” He pressed another light kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “You clever thing.”

Sherlock’s slightly dizzy smile turned into something else, tenderness giving his battered face a softer, younger appearance. John stroked a thumb across his cheekbone. They had done it. The _Spider_ was destroyed, along with the leadership of the NOTP.

And their life could finally move on.

“You saved my life,” Sherlock murmured. “I couldn’t give the signal-”

John shook his head. That was the farthest thing from his mind right now. “It was nothing… but… Sherlock,” he breathed. “What I said, before you left… Well, what I almost said, I mean-”

“I love you,” Sherlock declared. His eyes sparkled. “I love you, John Watson.”

John stared, mouth hanging open. Around them, the crew tittered and beamed. Irene whooped, to general mirth. Finally, John swallowed.

“Git,” he said, even as a giggle burst forth. “You had to steal my chance to say it first?”

Sherlock chuckled, and his countenance shifted into a decidedly teasing look. “Of course. After all, I was a pirate first.”

Everyone snickered, though their laughter turned to cheers when John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

They were still cheering when John sat back and took Sherlock’s face in his hands. 

“I love you too, Captain Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m adding an epilogue! Stay tuned :)
> 
> Random observation I thought of while writing this… why are they called the high seas? Are there low seas? What does it mean??


	11. Epilogue: To the Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One month has passed since Sherlock and John’s confrontation with the Spider.

The breeze filled the grey sails with steady, cool air. The ocean rolled in gentle waves beneath the hull. The sun shone in hot beams down onto the decks of the _Zephyrus_.

John pulled the last loop through the knot he was tying down and gave it an experimental tug. Satisfied it was secured, he swung his legs over the side of the crow’s nest, clutched the rope, and pushed off.

He glided down, gaining speed with every second, wind rushing past his ears. The cloth he had wrapped around his palms before leaping off protected his hands, but he could still feel the heat that rose from the rope as he slid. He whooped, and the crew members who were on deck looked up and cheered.

He landed with a resounding thud on deck, letting go of the rope at the last moment before his speed would have carried him over the railing and into the water. Grinning, he straightened up as his friends laughed and applauded.

“You are going to break your leg if you continue to insist on doing that,” a voice called out over the commotion.

John swept his hair off his forehead and lifted his gaze to the helm. Sherlock sat there, a rather exasperated smile on his face.

John waved off the continued laughter, which was now punctuated by whistles and amiable jeers, and made his way up to his lover. Sherlock watched his assent with a raised eyebrow and that soft smile still present on his face.

“I’ve not broken my leg yet, dearest,” he said, as he pulled the cloth off his hands and tossed it aside. He moved to stand behind Sherlock so he could wrap his arms around his shoulders and across his chest. “Besides, it’s fun.”

Sherlock’s eye roll was so obvious as to be physically palpable. “Well, I am glad you are enjoying yourself. I only request you do not get yourself mortally wounded anymore. It is growing rather tiresome.”

John pursed his lips and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “I could say the same to you, you know.”

He pulled back from Sherlock and moved around to lean on the railing in front of the wheel to face the pirate captain. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock shifted on the box that served as his seat. His broken ankle was still encased in a splint—courtesy of Molly—though the other wounds he had sustained while aboard the _Spider_ were healing well. Most of the gashes and cuts had faded, though the burn on his forearm was still bright and shiny. Molly and John had developed a salve, but the damage was deep; it would be several more weeks before the injury would heal fully. He no longer wore the headscarf, having lost it to the sea when Moriarty had thrown him overboard, and the pale scar on his head gleamed unobscured in the sunlight. However, John thought it might be fading. He hoped it would; sometimes he would catch Sherlock touching it and frowning. The scar needed to disappear, John thought, so every bit of Moriarty’s hold on Sherlock would be at last removed.

“I’m tired of being unable to walk,” Sherlock admitted.

John nodded. “It won’t be long now.”

Sherlock inclined his head, but eyed John with a keen gaze. John, used to his pirate’s sharp observational skills, didn’t react other than to straighten his posture a bit.

“You’re still sore from the battle, though the wounds have mostly healed. The tremor has gone again, finally, as have the effects of that blow to the head. Still. You aren’t completely well yet. I’ve been discussing this with Molly. She says that stab wound you cauterized needs more time to heal. Stretching, pulling, twisting—you should avoid movements like those.”

Sherlock reached his hand out, and John stood straight, moving close. The pirate captain’s arm looped around his waist, and his head pressed against John’s chest. “So you really should not be swinging from ropes like a madman.”

“Alright,” John relented. “I’ll stop for now.”

Sherlock hummed, nuzzling into John’s chest. He looked up, then frowned. “What’s this now?”

His deft fingers pulled back John’s partially-buttoned shirt to reach into the inside pocket and extract what he had spotted there—a piece of paper.

“It’s nothing,” John’s cheeks flamed immediately as he made a feeble grab for the slip, even as Sherlock unfolded it.

“John, you sentimentalist,” he murmured.

On the paper was a sketch in charcoal, of Sherlock standing at the bow of the ship, which had its sails full. He had a small smirk on his face, his curls wild in the wind.

“Alright, give it back.” John snatched the paper and shoved it back in his pocket. “And say nothing. I have a reputation, you know.”

“Yes, as a fearsome sailor-turned-pirate, capable of felling men while swinging on a rope.” Sherlock was blushing, cheeks going all rosy, and he ducked his head. “Please. I doubt anyone aboard this ship believes either of us are as formidable as the tales will say.”

“Oh?” John teased. “Shame. I rather liked the sound of that description.”

He kissed Sherlock then, a gentle press of lips, then trailed a finger down his jaw. Sherlock shivered and smiled at the touch, leaning into it.

“Alright, let me sail,” he scolded in a faux-severe tone. John chuckled and resumed his position behind Sherlock, again slinging his arms around him. They fell into a companionable silence for several minutes. On the main deck, most of the crew had started up a card game, sitting in a circle near the mizzenmast. That sight of his friends relaxed and laughing proved to John they were really, truly in the clear. The threat of the NOTP had been neutralized—without their leadership, they were helpless. A message from Mycroft had reported that, thanks to his own information and connections, the remaining operatives were under scrutiny by multiple governments. The East India Company, it seemed, was ecstatic. Mycroft was unsure how to feel about that, but he was assured that the world was a better place with only one trading programme in it.

“You should go speak to him,” Sherlock said suddenly, breaking John’s reverie.

“Who?” he asked. But then, he spotted James Sholto, leaning against the foremast, a bottle in his hand. His face was downcast.

“Oh,” John murmured. He nodded, then dropped a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head. “Good idea. Be right back, love.”

He made his way down the steps and over to Sholto. The man glanced up and raised the bottle in greeting. John took it and swallowed a swig.

“James,” he said. “How are you?”

“You sound as if you already know the answer to that question,” Sholto said, taking the bottle back from John.

John sighed, eyeing him. He didn’t look back. “James, what happened with Victor wasn’t your fault.”

“He played me for a fool.”

“He played us _all_ for fools,” John said. “Even Sherlock.”

“I know,” Sholto sighed. “But… it’s my fault my men died, and it’s my fault that monster attacked the _Fusilier_.”

“No, James,” John laid a hand on the man’s arm. “It isn’t your fault. You didn’t attack us. Moriarty did. He made that decision, not you.”

“He made that decision because of what I witnessed.”

John sighed. He had an inkling this conversation would rapidly become circular. “Listen. I can’t tell you how to feel about this, but I can tell you this isn’t the best way to deal with it,” he gestured to the bottle dangling at Sholto’s side. “This crew is small. And you fought well with us last month. We could use your expertise. You could find a family here. I did.”  

Sholto raised his eyebrows. “You think of them as your family?”

John tried not to blush. “Not on purpose. It just sort of happened one day. They aren’t so bad here. You might be surprised.”

He clapped him on the shoulder and made to leave. But before he could turn away entirely, James turned him back around.

“Sherlock would let me stay?” he asked.

John glanced up at him, still at the wheel, eyes on the horizon. He glanced down at John, however, and smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I think he would.” He paused, considering. “James, listen. You’re a good man, None of your actions were criminal. Don’t forget that.”

Sholto did not quite smile, but he looked less miserable than before. So John headed back toward Sherlock. By the time he reached the poop deck, he spotted James approaching the card game, rather like an easily-spooked animal.

He needn’t have worried, however. Irene and Kate immediately hailed him, and several deckhands waved him over as well. He sat, and John noticed with a smile how Ekene moved close and began explaining the game in a combination of signs and spoken words. Sholto tentatively raised his hands to try to reply, and whatever he said—or perhaps failed to say—made Ekene laugh. Sholto smiled.

“I think he might be alright,” John murmured.

Without warning, arms slipped around John’s waist and pulled him backwards. John went, grinning, and allowed Sherlock to guide him back to the wheel. They ended up side by side before the helm.

“You aren’t supposed to be walking about,” John chastised, though he was rather distracted by Sherlock’s mouth to muster a stern enough tone.

Sherlock pulled away from him, a single hand on the wheel, and pursed his lips. “It was only for a moment. I can walk short distances.”

John shook his head, smiling, and kissed his lover again. Sherlock tasted of the sea, and the sweet fruits that they had taken on board two days previous. He wished they did not have to keep an eye on the wheel, because John would much rather devote all their attention to each other. He would rather pull Sherlock close and allow the pirate captain’s arms to wrap around him until that was all he could feel.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. He pulled back a bit, but only far enough for John to attach his mouth to his jawline. “I have a question for you.”

“Oh? Can’t it wait?”

“Not really.”

John sighed and sat back. “What is it, dearest?”

Sherlock licked his slightly-swollen lips and cleared his throat. “John, you know I could not have done all this without you. I could not have defeated the _Spider_ , or at least lived to tell of it, had it not been for your help.”

“Sherlock…” he brushed back the man’s curls. The past four weeks, Sherlock had carefully dodged every mention of Victor/Moriarty, until John had at last decided to wait. Sherlock would bring it up when he was ready, he had told himself.

“I mean that.” Sherlock swallowed. “I believed Moriarty’s charade. I… I was a fool.”

“No. Sherlock, you were remembering a childhood friend you trusted and who was there for you when you had lost your parents. You wanted to get justice, and Victor seemed to support that.”

“I was sentimental, in other words,” Sherlock growled. “I allowed myself to care about him, I practically became a pirate because of him!” He looked at John, eyes wide. “My entire adult life has been built on a lie.”

John reached for his free hand and squeezed it, then dropped gentle kisses onto the knuckles. “No,” he breathed. “From what you told me, the NOTP was corrupt long before Moriarty began working for them, thanks to his father. You didn’t become a pirate because of Moriarty’s actions, even when you knew him as Victor. You left home and got on a ship to get justice for _your_ father and do what the British government and the powerful rich did not. You became a pirate to hunt down criminals and stop them. And just like you did your father, you came to see Victor as someone else who had been wronged and harmed. If anything, his actions motivated you even further to destroy the NOTP. Yes, you did what you did because of your relationship with Victor, but in my opinion, you did something your father would be proud of. If anything, love, your life as a pirate is in spite of who Moriarty is, not because of him.”

Sherlock blinked. Some doubt lingered in his eyes, but he appeared at least somewhat reassured. Neither of them spoke for some time, listening to the sound of the sea and their crew laughing together.

Then, Sherlock twisted to gaze at John, those intense eyes sharp. “John… I may have become a pirate, at least in part, because of Victor. Or… in spite of Victor. Moriarty. But… I want to become a better person, a good person, because of you.”

John stared, lips parted slightly. Speechless, he could only lean forward and kiss his pirate, hard but tender.

“Oh, how I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered against his mouth. “But I have to warn you. I believe you are in imminent danger.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “Danger? Why?”

John let a teasing smirk seep onto his face. “Because I have a sudden urge to drag you off to our cabin and have my way with you.”

The color in Sherlock’s cheeks heightened until his entire face was a fetching pink. He ducked his head in an unexpectedly shy manner. “Unfortunately, I can’t leave yet. _Someone_ has to sail this ship, and I am loath to interrupt their merriment.” He gestured to the circle, still wrapped up in their card game. “But later…” Sherlock smiled. “Yes. That sounds… agreeable.”

John chuckled and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Alright, alright.” He sat back but did not release Sherlock’s hand.

“I, erm, did wish to broach a certain subject with you,” Sherlock said without warning.

“What is it?” Sherlock’s tone bordered on formal, a key indication that he was nervous.

“I have been discussing with Irene, and she has agreed it is a good idea. You see, Molly has elected to stay on board. She has found that life on the sea agrees with her, and she enjoys the freedom of practicing medicine without answering to the expectations of society. So we have a doctor.”

“How does that concern me?”

“Well, I had considered asking you to be our ship doctor before she came to me with her decision. I can hardly turn her away, she’s a friend, so I was unsure what to do with you.” Sherlock shifted his position and made a show of adjusting their course.

“What to do with me?” John teased.

Sherlock looked askance. “Please, John, I am attempting to be sincere.”

“Sorry.”

“You have skills in many areas—shooting, sword-fighting, navigating, leadership, strategizing. So I wish to make you captain. You already have experience in that position, after all”

John stared. “What?”

“Well, one of two captains. A mutual sharing of powers,” Sherlock did not meet his gaze. “You and I would command the _Zephyrus_ together. If you want.”

“You really want this?”

Sherlock glanced at him. “I do.”

John grinned. “I do too.”

The look of relief that entered Sherlock’s eyes beckoned John forward to hug him close. Sherlock leaned into the embrace, sighing contentedly.

“Good,” he muttered, nosing at the crook of John’s neck.

“So,” John looked back, still beaming. He felt sure the expression would not fade for hours, at least. He felt as exhilarated and breathless as he had when sliding down the rope, his heart hammering and joy pumping through his veins. “Where to, Captain Holmes? What do you want to do, now that your nemesis is defeated?”

Sherlock tilted his head in consideration, but there was no longer guilt present to cloud his countenance. “Well, Mycroft has gathered information not only about the NOTP, but about the EIC, about slave traders. There is plenty of corruption in this world and on these seas, besides Moriarty. And I would like to face them with you.”

“You know I’ve not got any other plans,” John smiled. “So. What’s our next destination?”

Sherlock smirked and kissed John. “Anywhere. Everywhere. Captain Watson of the _Zephyrus_ , where do _you_ think we should go next?”

John slid an arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Somewhere we can have an adventure.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I know just the place. Ready?”

“Oh, God yes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheesy epilogue for the win. I just wanted an excuse to give our boys a bit more fluff and snogs :)  
> Thank you to everyone who read, commented, left kudos, etc. I had tons of fun writing this story, and your support has meant so much to me. When I first started drafting this fic, I imagined it would be 2-3 chapters. HA. What a simpler time. Luckily Sherlock and John knew better than I did and showed me the way through this. And so did all of you :)  
> Any historical inaccuracy I made in this was accidental, nor has this been beta-ed or Brit-picked. So if there are any major errors, feel free to let me know so I can address them.  
> Again, thank you so much for reading, everyone!  
> Next AU prompt: Quiz


End file.
